Ode to the 16

It’s dark, still, outside. The street lights barely glow to conceal the unshed snow that sits on the corner of the street. A few cars, trucks drive by. Each driver seemingly focused on getting to work on time. Or maybe returning home from a long shift? The glass house – or what I call glass house – I wait under. It’s hard to tell when the bus is close to my stop, so I occasionally have to step out of the comfort of the enclosure to peek in the distance. Is that the 16 or the 50?

The 50 zooms past, with barely any colored folks sitting in it. A couple white folks, each with their nose buried in a book or magazine, trying to avoid seeing the decay of the town they pass through. I shiver slightly and hold my scarf, pressed tight against my nose. My glasses fog up and I wish I had little window wipers to make them clear again. The moisture collects on the acrylic green fibers and I have to move the scarf slightly to a drier spot.

It’s cold and I try to keep warm – and busy until the bus arrives. The two white men in their heavy winter coats walk past, each with a shiny black briefcase in their hand. One looks like he’s near retirement while the other is already in retirement. They smile and try to catch my eye. Here, the younger of the two hands me a 10-page magazine. Redemption, was the title. No thank you, I’m Catholic. I reply politely. They look hurt, but don’t insist and walk towards their next convert. Unlike the younger Jehovah’s witnesses, who ride their bikes through the neighborhood, facing unknown dangers, sweating in their black suits, white shirts, and black ties, these men don’t ask me if I truly know God.

I glance at the street and see the 16 slowly make its way toward me. I take out my bus pass and get ready to board. Sometimes the bus driver is slow. Barely driving 5 mph. Sometimes, the bus driver is fast, driving like a madwoman and hitting the breaks just we near the next bus stop. I miss the old man with the graying hair. He of the cheerful smile, the blues eyes, and the frail body, who always waited for me to sit before driving on.

Only the unabashed, the brave, and the drunks dare to conduct conversation on the bus. Rarely do the riders utter a sentence, if only to say, Excuse me, I’m getting off, or if they’re sitting with someone they already know. Sometimes children come aboard with their parents or their accompanied adult and the little tykes are the object of conversation. Ooh, look she smiled. Coos the Mother to the man sitting opposite her daughter’s stroller. How old is she? 8 months.

The return trip is a mess of odors, people and bags. Bodies pressed against each other if there are too many people. The little old lady in her electric scooter means an extra 8 minute delay. We can only sigh and wait. Head bent, headphones on, I only pay attention to my stop, hurrying the bus along, so I can go home and rest.

16 is my number. If you want to find me, come ride the 16 and you’ll see. It’s my ride – and an in-convenient one at time. It’s my ride, and I’m glad it’s available to ride.