I take the bus. On weekdays, during the morning and evening rush hours, there is an express that carries manifestly affluent workers between their homes in Edina and southwest Minneapolis to their jobs in downtown office buildings. On weekends, however, there is no choice but to take the local, which runs up and down Nicollet Avenue, through poor neighborhoods that the express speeds past on the freeway. The local stops at every corner that anyone is waiting at, and "incidents" occur with regularity. A passenger who cannot, or will not, pay the fare is a mild example. I see the same faces every day on the express but I've never seen a single one of them on the local. If they go downtown on the weekend, they drive. The people on the local--not their demographic.
All that is a sort of preface to what happened to my six-year-old and me yesterday, Sunday, on the local. She boarded first and headed straight to the back of the bus. After paying the fare, I joined her on the back bench next to an African-American teen who looked like a reason for driving your car: baggy jeans half way down his ass, the elaborately decorated hero jacket, the cap worn in the manner of C.C. Sabathia--I would have chosen a seat closer to the senior citizens crowding the driver. This black kid was sitting next to the window, which was open, and, soon as we were settled, he spoke: "Is it too cold for the little girl? I can shut the window." I said she was fine. He smiled. "How about you?" he said.
Comments