a man and his walrus

The man in a black t-shirt looks like an older Ray Romano, the skin of his cheeks beginning to lose it's foothold against gravity. He wears a black iPod nano snapped into a black velcro watch band, with a slender cord trailing up his arm to his headphones. He adjusts a small brown pillow between his shoulder and head. But it's not quite perfect. He adjusts again, and a tusked smile with whiskers peeks over his shoulder. He closes his eyes, cuddled up with his small stuffed walrus.

A few more stops, and he gives up on the nap. He slides out a copy of the day's paper, folded in half, and holds it in his right hand, adorned with a simple gold band on his ring finger. His brown eyes peer down his narrow nose and he begins reading as he smacks his gum. After a few minutes he pauses to check the walrus, now resting calmly on a small grey toolbox in the seat beside him.

Tucked at his feet is one Trader Joe's brown paper bag, perhaps dinner tonight. I wonder if it's clam chowder.

the cork

A few stops past the bus's point of origin, a couple boards through the front. They tap their cards as the bus lurches forward. He wears a black leather coat that laces up the sides, but the laces are missing and lines of eyelets on leather flaps dance with the movement of the bus. His hair is in a neat ponytail that stretches in one thick solid line to his waist, black with five inches of mousy brown roots. He stops a third of the way down the aisle, obscuring his traveling partner from view. They begin an animated conversation as the bus continues on it's route.

At each stop, people exit out the back door as more people enter through the front. The man steadies himself on the poles, a hand latched onto each side of the aisle. At each stop, new passengers peer around this blockage to see an empty aisle while they press against total strangers. They peer up at him, then exchange glances, speak in low whispers, united in a shared plight. The man's eyes dart around the bus. Do they register the crowd ahead, and the space behind?

Halfway through the ride, the couple steps out the back door and into the dark night. The crowd expands down the aisle like foam insulation into every gap. The collective exhale is almost audible, and the quiet whispers increase to laughing conversations.

assumptions.

"Hi! Are you waiting for the bus?" the woman asks as she arrives at the bus stop. She's well dressed in long coat, bundled against the cold New England weather that finally arrived with the new year.

"Yup." We are at the bus stop, after all, I think to myself.

From under a big hooded coat, she asks, "What bus you are taking?" followed by "Where you are going?" and informs us she just had dinner with a friend. Her trip home is long apparently, and she has to work tomorrow.

We recommend a different bus to give her a more direct route.

She listens as if considering our suggestion, then cautiously declines. "I don't think so. I know where I'm going."

At this point it dawns on me. Her awkward questioning tactics. The slight slur blending the spaces between slowly enunciated words. The hesitancy to change from the familiar. She might be special needs.

"What bus are you taking?" she asks again, and now I am sure.

She goes on to tell me about her job at Lord & Taylor. It doesn't quite fit with the mental image I have begun to construct, but it would explain the coat and designer handbag. She mentions something about stocking.

After my answer to each question she asks and my agreement to each statement she makes, she pauses long enough to give the impression that the conversation is over, then launches in again with awkward, ill-fitting replies. My phone tells me we will be waiting for at least five more minutes. I want to talk to Ian instead, but how can I be rude to someone like her? So I respond. Agreeing that, yes 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. makes for a very long, exhausting work day.

"Nine hours straight is a lot."

"We get an hour break for lunch."

Eight hour work days twice a week. Must be rough. I remind myself to extend grace. She continues to complain, citing a busy holiday season with extra hours: almost 30 one week.

Finally the bus comes, and she says goodbye with a flourishing wave before she gets in line ahead of us.

As we sit down a few seats away from her, we exchange glances. "As soon as she asked us again what bus we were taking, I knew," Ian confides. "She's drunk, so I just zoned her out."

Oh.

ripped from a mix-n-match flip book

Walking along Copley Square, your eye is drawn to a hefty fur coat with hat to match — Russian perhaps. Against black fur the points of two mirrored triangles, traced in bleach-yellow lines, fill the back and meet in the middle, implying an hourglass figure where there is none. Long, coarse blonde hair flutters like a flag in the gap between hat and coat.

Thick fingers hold a cigar in a diameter to match. An inch of ash clings to the end, and a trail of smoke follows behind. You cough.

The coat stretches down until it is arrested by knees. Below are dark wool dress pants with a hint of pinstripe. You note they create a textbook medium break as they meet polished men's oxford dress shoes.

Your eyes slide to the left, towards the noise of wheels on brick paving. A faded red rolling backpack shows it's age.

The distance between you increases — his pace is fast. As he pulls away you see his profile. Dark sunglasses atop a strong nose. Chiseled bone structure. Deep creases everywhere, as if he were a chainsaw sculpture. Red complexion. Another moment and he is gone.

They only care about the green stuff

I walk up to the bus stop awning and see George's smile, deepening the wrinkles around his eyes.

Over the past year we've gotten to know one another. We wait for our buses. He tells me about his job as a cancer researcher, visits to his mother-in-law, when his family is going back to China for a visit. He says I look Russian and I laugh. He asks about Ian, my job. We discuss classical music and hard work.

He scoots over so there's room for me. I sit between him and a woman in a teal hat and coat, hood lined with fur. It contrasts with her Revlon 31 dark auburn hair.

George tells me the schedule for the 52 has changed, but the 502 is still the same. He now has to wait for the 6:20 bus. The woman interjects a comment about the approaching 57, but I have a hard time understanding her unusually thick Boston accent. We weren't talking about the 57. Puzzled, I nod then turn back to George. We talk about the weather. It's supposed to start snowing tomorrow night. Over a foot, I've heard.

"What a day I'm having," the woman interrupts again.

My manners tell me to acknowledge her. "Oh?"

"I took my black coat to the cleanah's and asked them to fix the zippah. I picked it up today and paid. I get home and they cleaned it — I didn't want them to, and they didn't fix the zippah!"

"Can't you just take it back and ask them to fix it?" I ask.

"Yeah. But I didn't want to go out in the snow. That's why I picked it up today. Now I'll have to wait until Friday."

"Oh."

"You know they only care about the green stuff." She rubs invisible coins together between her fingers as her rings glint in the twilight. "Because they're Chinese."

I wince, even though George is no longer paying attention — his bus has just arrived and he says goodnight with a courteous bow.

I turn back to the woman. "He's Chinese," I tell her. I don't point out I'm half-Filipino and the only other person waiting for a bus is from Taiwan.

"Oh, I didn't mean to offend. You can't tell." She adjusts her jean purse and sniffs her prominent nose.

That's like saying you couldn't tell rain is wet, I think.

"Well, it doesn't matter," I say. "Anyone can be greedy. White people are greedy." I try to phrase this tactfully, instead of using the other words coming to mind.

"They should learn English. I can't understand them." She is defensive. Is this why she changed the subject?

I can't understand you, I think. Maybe it was her accent, not theirs, that left her zipper broken.

"If I lived in Floridah, I'd learn the language."

Florida is still in the States. Does she mean Spanish?

I mumble something about how hard it is to learn English.

"They just have to go to the library and get some tapes."

She tells me about her son's wife, who is Portuguese and lives in New Hampshire — she learned English and her son is bilingual. "Her English is beautiful."

The 502 pulls up, and I make sure to put several seats between us before I allow myself to chuckle at the absurdity.

Cambridge to Brookline on Monday night

10:03 p.m. — Slide out of the back seat and say thanks to the nice people who drove you to Harvard Square so you didn't have to walk.

10:04 p.m. — Skirt around the man sitting on the sidewalk, legs splayed, pouring his stomach contents onto the pavement.

10:07 p.m. — Hide behind a pole to avoid the subway musician as you wait for the red line train. His electric keyboard plays a prerecorded tune while he hassles other passengers to pay for his concert. He is unsuccessful, unless you count a Cheetos from two high school boys.

10:10 p.m. — Get on the train and sit across from a girl and her dog. The girl wears several pounds of jewelry, which might or might not include two horse shoes and a hanger hook. Her hair blends gracefully between brown, blonde, and teal — the same shade as her tights tucked neatly into half-laced brown combat boots. Two dreadlocks frame her petite, smiling face, and her short hair in back is gathered into a ponytail. This matches her dog, who is wearing a "There ain't no thing as too much bling" t-shirt and sporting a poufy tail and tiny mohawk with horizontal teal stripes. He quietly befriends nearby passengers with his endearing underbite.

10:19 p.m. — Change from the red to the green line.

10:28 p.m. — Sit next to the window, where you shortly will be joined by a young psychiatrist-in-training reading The Gift of Therapy. He starts the ride with the chapter "Don't be afraid of touching your patient," but he will have advanced to "Never be sexual with patients" by the time you get off the train. An orange foam bat is tucked into his briefcase.

10:31 p.m. — Look across the aisle. You will see a young man in jeans and a grey t-shirt composing a sonata as his K-Swiss sneaker keeps time.

10:39 p.m. — Step off the train into the cool dark night, relishing the silence as you walk towards home.

10:44 p.m. — Stop for the Asian woman speaking loudly at you in Chinese. Spend the next five minutes attempting to understand where she needs to go and explain directions. Ponder the lack of similarity between Chinese and English. Use broad hand gestures for "train" and "that way." Rummage in your bag for pen and paper to draw a map, although you still do not know her destination. Decline her apparent requests for you to act as guide to her unknown destination. Thank the Asian girl riding past on a bike who stops and takes over because she can understand the woman.

10:52 p.m. — Unlock your front door, slip out of your TOMS, and tell your husband and mother-in-law about your trip home.

a concert at Copley

She sat down on a bench near the bus stop at Copley Square, far away from the men smoking cigarettes to mask the scent from a sickly-sweet joint tucked neatly between fingers, hidden in a palm, passed from hand to hand.

She seemed to have a checklist of colors while dressing in the morning. Green bandana. Orange hair. Black boxer shorts with flecks of color. Grey tank top. Red socks. Brown combat boots.

She pulled a cd player and headphones from her tattered bag. After a push of a button, her voice, belting "Love Shack," echoed from the Hancock Tower to Trinity Church as if Copley were a karaoke bar with no accompaniment.

Her legs began bouncing. Soon she was no longer on the bench, but dancing across the pavement as she sucked on a cigarette, performing to please no one but herself.

standing by for medical emergency

Her ebony hand clutches his pale arm as she whispers to him.

"I'll tell the driver." But he doesn't leave her side. Instead, he enlists a fellow passenger, in an unmistakable Boston accent, to communicate to the driver a passenger is in trouble.

An unassuming woman with neat blonde hair turns around. "Have you eaten anything recently? Are you diabetic?" Her bedside manner reveals her as a nurse, even if her attire does not.

The train pulls into the stop and the doors open. Only after making sure the nurse will remain with the woman does the man in the Red Sox t-shirt step off to continue with his day.

"This train is standing by for a medical emergency," the loudspeakers announce, as the nurse holds the woman's hand. "Will you go to Mass Gen? Yeah, they'll take really good care of you there!"

A woman at the back of the train mutters "I could get there faster if I walked," shaking her head to the man standing next to her.

A man leans in for video footage with his camera phone as the medical officials arrive and have the woman lay down in the car. The nurse offers an update as they begin to take out equipment and ask the passengers to exit the train so they have room to work.

The man with the camera phone takes photos as he steps down the stairs. Photos of the woman. Photos of the EMTs.

"DON'T DO THAT. I'm trying to do my job. Get outta here with that!"

"Chill out man." And he walks away in his sneakers and fedora, scrolling through his shots.

The nurse remains on the train car, holding the woman's hand as she's gently lifted onto the special seat they will use to take her up the stairs to the waiting ambulance.

Soon the trains resume. New passengers board, unaware that moments before, a woman's crisis distilled the heroes from the villains.

the eye of the morning commute

The leather strap on his tan bag is worn on the edges with little notches, like laugh lines. His khaki green trench coat flutters around his knees as he boards the train, but his white curls flecked with dark grey don't budge. A woman apologizes for the lack of space. "It's okay, I can practice my flat Samantha," he laughs as he smooths his tie.

The bubble of clear enamel protecting his American flag lapel pin reflects a distorted rectangle of the green-tinged florescent light overhead. He pulls out a thick manuscript and a tiny black case containing rectangular glasses just big enough to read a few lines at a time. He juggles these two objects, balancing amidst a tangle of people that resembles a plate of spaghetti, arms everywhere.

A few stops down, he steps off the train so others can get out. As people begin to board, he steps back. The train pulls away and he's standing alone on the platform reading the manuscript through his black-rimmed glasses, unaffected by the rush around him. He is the eye of the storm.

the wonky knee

She had long, almost blonde hair, gathered into a ponytail that emerged from below her baseball hat. The canvas bag she carried looked as if it could have used laundering a few years ago. It curved out in the middle, much like it's owner. Her finger maneuvered up to push the stop strip. ding.

"You want the third stop?"

"No, I need Bacon Street."

"If I make the loop it'll take an extra 10 minutes. You sure you can't just cross the street?"

Her voice grew louder and more emphatic. "I need Bacon Street. I can't walk. I'm the one with the wonky knee!" She threw her shoulders back a little and her eyebrows dove toward her pointed nose.

The bus pulled up to the first stop, and she walked off without a limp.

As the bus pulled away the driver laughed, "Wonky knee my ass. She just lazy. hoohoo!"

an amuse-bouche of summer

If I didn't ride the T, I would have missed it. Missed the improv jazz band playing at the corner of Copley Square, the saxophonist swaying with his eyes closed. Missed the peanut vendor on the phone telling her boss she sold lots of drinks today. Missed the train full of Red Sox fans on their way to tonight's game against the Yankees, which will decide the series. Missed the sunburnt guy asking a girl he's never met before about her engagement ring, then telling her how he's going to sell his motorcycle so he can buy a ring for his girlfriend. Missed the sun dresses blooming like spring flowers. Missed the old Japanese couple dressed to the nines in black, he in a three-piece pinstripe suit, she in a polite skirt and long-sleeve cardigan, as if 80 degrees has no effect on them. Missed the bow-legged man with white hair, white shirt and white shorts, stopping in the middle of the crosswalk to look through his camera lens. Missed the delicious amuse-bouche of summer in the city.

two subway musicians

His stool and dingy Santa doll sat beside a pillar as he waited for passengers to make the transfer from the green line to the blue. His harmonica wailed a short tune to new arrivals. Then silence. No shuffling feet, no rolling luggage, no jingling coins. More passengers arrived, and he began his tune again, with more emphasis on each note. Still nothing. He played the song again, louder still. "Come on. Help me out!" He leaned back against the pillar, glaring at everyone whose pockets burned with the money he earned. Footsteps clicked down the stairs, but only the first few harmonica notes sounded before the clatter of the train drowned them out, leaving the man and Santa alone on the platform.

Her dark hair and short stature were in stark contrast to the shiny acoustic guitar. A John Denver song strummed through a small black amplifier that ensured the waves of passengers could hear every note. The periodic clack of another green line train served as a metronome. Her accent, distinctly un-country, stamped her signature on "Take Me Home, Country Roads." Although her notes were sometimes off key she sang with abandon, making you believe the train tracks would take her to those West Virginia mountains. Bills piled up in her little box, each green flutter prompting a smile with crinkled eyes in the giver's direction before her focus returned to the music stand in front of her. Songs trailed after the train cars like lingering perfume.

a crying baby/grumpy woman fiasco

Yesterday, Ian and I took a grand afternoon adventure to turn our Kansas driver's licenses into this.

Because licenses here in Massachusetts are paper. Until they mail you the permanent one.

At any rate, it really turned into quite the adventure. Before heading to the Registry of Motor Vehicles, I got online and checked what we would need — two forms of ID and proof of address. Then I got on the bus to meet Ian.

We met near the office, ready to follow the directions I found online. After waiting in the freezing cold for 15 minutes at the bus terminal, we saw our bus drive past us on the street. It's stop was a block away. We rushed to the correct stop and caught the bus a few minutes later. Then we got off one stop past the optimal choice. After a moment of panic (on my part) and a quick pause to ask directions, we found the RMV, located in the Watertown Mall.

Walking into the RMV is like walking into the New York Stock Exchange (not that I've been inside the NYSE). After checking in with the desk and receiving a number with an approximate waiting time (40 minutes), you move to the center of the room, where there are more people waiting than there are benches. Along each wall are customer service cubicles — one wall for licensing, one wall for vehicle registration. When they announce your number, you look to see which cubicle your number is flashing over, then go to that cubicle. Even though most of the customers didn't seem thrilled, the staff was brusquely pleasant and the system efficient.

Thanks to consulting the Web site for needed documents, we didn't have any problems. My photo was appropriately goofy but avoided the deathly sick look and photoshopped hair my passport photo achieved. We also registered to vote during the licensing process, knocking out a total of three items on our how-to-move-to-Boston list.

The trip home went much faster since we'd learned the stops (the hard way) already. We hopped on the crowded bus, standing room only. Moments later, Ian snickered and whispered I should check out the lady over my shoulder. She had dirty blonde hair and a gaunt face that said "I smoke a pack a day." Her mouth was molded into a scowl revealing yellowed teeth, tipping like weathered gravestones. Her eyes glared towards the back of the bus with a surprised irritation. Then I heard the baby cry.

The woman's eyes tightened. A few more wails and she couldn't contain herself. "Put an f***ing bottle in it's mouth!"

Ian and I exchanged a glance. Her irritation was so unreasonable it was laughable. We restrained ourselves. I was worried for that mother somewhere in the back of the bus. Did most of the people share the voiced irritation of the woman? I held my breath as she shot out another comment.

Our fellow bus riders responded. "If you don't want to hear it, get off the bus." I exhaled. We would defend the mother.

"Just put something in it's f***ing mouth!" brought an even stronger reaction. The twenty-something sitting next to the woman accused her of verbal assault and marched up to the bus driver to complain, her dark curls bouncing.

The lady sitting in front of us paused from her book. "Someone should put something in HER mouth." I envisioned a bar of soap fitting under the snarling woman's curled upper lip.

It was dark as we got off the still-crowded bus. I could see the mother and baby through the glowing window, a cluster of people standing between her and the woman.

We laughed as we walked to the stop for our next bus. Public transportation is so much more entertaining than having your own car.