by Joan Rosenbaum
After a long subway ride, I find a seat on the cross-town bus, and settle into my book. Seated near the front, it’s hard to avoid the drama of transit. At 4:30 pm, leaving Lexington Avenue, the bus is already crowded. There’s a just-out-of-school cheerfulness with boisterous high school boys in back and chatty younger kids with a parent or caregiver in the middle. At Madison Avenue the ramp is let down and two seniors, one with a shopping cart and another with a walker create a barely passable obstacle course for people boarding behind who maneuver toward a seat, pole or strap, while murmuring about the need to fold up carriages and walkers and the misery of the MTA.
Lumbering toward Fifth Avenue, the bus is now uncomfortably stuffed, and the mood has declined. Close to 5:00 pm, the door opens for a dozen or so waiting passengers who squeeze their way through the crush of human and material impediments. The door finally closes but a few seconds before the light turns green, opens again to take on a young woman who roughly yanks on board a young boy by his arm. She wedges a space close to my seat where I observe the two—the dark long-lashed eyes of the beautiful, tired looking boy and the stressed look of the disheveled woman who is no more than a teenager—a girl. I contemplate her stretched leggings and tattered jacket and imagine her difficult life. Is she the boy’s sister? A mother with a son too much to handle for her young life—unable to see this adorable child as anything but a burden?
The bus lurches while inching toward the transverse portal, and everyone is jostled against each other. Groans from the standees and whoops from the boys in the back break the quiet. The girl, barely balancing a backpack, purse and phone, is no longer holding on to the boy, who loses his footing, grabs for the woman’s thighs and, buries his head in her stomach. Infuriated, she pushes him away and shouts. “Stand up! What do you think you’re doing? You’re going to embarrass me?” He starts to cry. I want to reach out and embrace the dark-eyed boy, help him balance, protect him from his unhappy, exhausted caretaker. The surrounding passengers are impassive, with a bare shred of tolerance for the crush of bodies, yet the drama is unavoidable. An elderly man gives his seat to the boy, but he’s now bawling. The girl slaps the boy’s shoulder and explodes, “What the fuck? Stop! “ Dead silence among the passengers some of whom eye each other with raised eyebrows and shaking heads. The girl gives the boy her cell phone, and the crying turns to whimpers.
There’s relief at Central Park West as the bus disgorges about a third of the passengers. We’ve arrived at what feels like the promised land of the West Side with the sun now setting ahead of us. With fewer standees, there’s a loosening of limbs and tension, and the boy has quieted down. By Amsterdam Avenue, the bus is now nearly empty. The girl and boy get out. I’m behind them and watch as she holds his hand as they silently walk up the avenue.
Joan Rosenbaum: Worked in and with museums whole professional life. Retired for the last six years. I’ve been a long-time member of LP2, previous known as IRP. Taking Charles Troob’s writing class for the two semesters over the last year has gotten me engaged in writing for the first time.