Meera Lee is so astonishing and beautiful. Is she not? She is, don't even argue with me. You will be outvoted. (Click above and read, per favore.)
As Meera and I parted ways after a lovely afternoon, I scooted up Mass Ave toward the 66 bus stop nearest the Harvard T station. Now, if you've ever had the misfortune of needing to catch this bus, you may know that you can see your fate for a solid three-minute walk/run before you actually reach the bus stop. You cross in front of the church and can see either many chilly people tapping feet impatiently or a big ol' bus glaring down at you and threatening to leave before you can risk your life crossing the street to get to it.
I stepped up the pace a bit once I assessed my own situation earlier today and saw that the bus was, indeed, glaring menacingly and looking a bit more like a steroidal race horse than most buses do. I rushed to the curb of the intersecting street as the bus edged away from the stop, caught by the same traffic that would kill me if I tried to cross. Dammit dammit dammit.
The light turned. The bus loomed away. I crossed slowly, dejectedly even. I idly gazed at the traffic of buses that weave and pass in that strange and unexplainable section of Cambridge, and lo, another bus reared its way toward the stop.
And, get this... it was a 66.
I had my change all ready in my hand from my fevered walk of moments before, which was lucky because I was a little stunned at my good fortune and could have forgotten to pay altogether.
The change clinks into the thinger, I briefly say "H'lo" to the driver, a white guy with a Boston accent who replied with "How ahh ya." Before I'm even in my seat the bus lurches and we're off.
The really great thing about boarding at Harvard ISN'T the waiting outside in the blistering cold wind among crazy people who drool tobacco juice on their shopping cart brimming with grimy blankets, although that's pretty sweet, too. No, oh no... the great part is that the bus comes to you fresh, bodyless, empty. Any seat could be yours, my friend. Put your feet up, stay a while... relax...
But this bus was really empty. Except for me. Running on the capable heels of the bus I had only just missed, all of the stops were vacant until we rolled across the bridge into Allston proper. This afforded some leisure time for your favorite JoBiv to sit awkwardly in a lit-up bus like a lone goldfish in an olympic-sized tank. And then he started talking.
"How do you like your limo ride so fah?"
"It's a little weird" (nervous chuckle)
He honks a few times, "Gahd there ah tons of people out right now. It's like an early rush owah."
"Yep."
"So ah you doin' First Night this yee-ah?"
"I dunno, prolly not."
Honk honk HONK. Awkward silence? Hard to tell...
"Um.. it's so expensive for what you get."
"Yeah, who wants to pay for a crowded bah where you still have to pay for drinks? And then to drive home... it's suicide. Not that I would drive home drunk. Not since I got this job..."
I'm not kidding. He said that. He said other things about First Night and New Yee-ah's in general, and then we finally had another passenger. And then a third. Slowly, normalcy regained, I no longer felt the burning strain of a forced conversation and he started yapping at other people. Apparently, this is how he passes his shift, with obnoxious honking and conversations chosen at random.
But really, I'd rather think that I was chosen, especially. Maybe not by him, but by some power that decided to send me a second-chance bus and set me in it like something enshrined. Garishly, of course, which is how most things are enshrined. But can you see me there, in my not-really-a-coat and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamscarf, tucking myself against a window and seemingly talking to myself, nodding and smiling queen-like for the invisible passers-by? It must have looked glorious, JoBiv ensconced in a burning chariot of fuel-efficient public transportation...
Don't worry, you, too, may get your time to shine.
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