Bus Report #1049
A week of late buses, or no buses.
The woman who works at the hospital joined me at the bus stop last week, dressed head to toe in denim: denim shirt, jacket, jeans, even denim shoes and a bag made from an old pair of jeans. Usually she's in scrubs.
I smiled, said, "Oh, is it denim day at work today?"
She frowned. "No, I've just got an all day training today."
Days and days with Olga. She always dresses so smartly, down to her earrings and always a nice brooch on her coat. Monday she shivered and plucked at her turtleneck. "Cold," she said.
I nodded. Shivered myself, exaggerated shoving my hands deep into my pockets.
We manage to understand each other, sort of. I know she goes to her son's house most days, to visit with her granddaughter. I know her granddaughter's name.
But I still can't explain to her that my good friend E. is apparently her next door neighbor.
Slowly, slowly.
Maybe I'll wake up one morning with perfect French. Or passable Russian.
Wouldn't that be something?
The mom with the two sons always has her older boy put on face lotion while we ride down Arguello. He removes his glasses and she squirts lotion into his hands, and he dutifully smears it all over his face and his neck. The mom puts lotion on her younger son, when he'll sit still for her.
He is a beautiful, beautiful boy, obviously loves his brother and his mama, but man. I feel for that mom. It must be hard to have such a different little child. Everyone smiles at him and at the mom, people understand why he flaps his hands some times and stares past them. No one minds when he babbles. But still.
When Stephan drives my bus these days, we call out to each other as I get out.
"Have a great evening, RACHEL," he says, emphasizing my name.
To which I reply, "Thanks, you too, STEPHAN."
This morning a young woman got on with a baby in a stroller, sat in the front. There were a few hard-luck women sitting nearby - too many backpacks and tote bags, the tough, leathery look of someone who has been outside for far too long.
It barely took a minute for the those women to melt completely - grinning and waving at the baby, flirting with him, telling his mom how sweet he was. It was lovely.
The woman who works at the hospital joined me at the bus stop last week, dressed head to toe in denim: denim shirt, jacket, jeans, even denim shoes and a bag made from an old pair of jeans. Usually she's in scrubs.
I smiled, said, "Oh, is it denim day at work today?"
She frowned. "No, I've just got an all day training today."
Days and days with Olga. She always dresses so smartly, down to her earrings and always a nice brooch on her coat. Monday she shivered and plucked at her turtleneck. "Cold," she said.
I nodded. Shivered myself, exaggerated shoving my hands deep into my pockets.
We manage to understand each other, sort of. I know she goes to her son's house most days, to visit with her granddaughter. I know her granddaughter's name.
But I still can't explain to her that my good friend E. is apparently her next door neighbor.
Slowly, slowly.
Maybe I'll wake up one morning with perfect French. Or passable Russian.
Wouldn't that be something?
The mom with the two sons always has her older boy put on face lotion while we ride down Arguello. He removes his glasses and she squirts lotion into his hands, and he dutifully smears it all over his face and his neck. The mom puts lotion on her younger son, when he'll sit still for her.
He is a beautiful, beautiful boy, obviously loves his brother and his mama, but man. I feel for that mom. It must be hard to have such a different little child. Everyone smiles at him and at the mom, people understand why he flaps his hands some times and stares past them. No one minds when he babbles. But still.
When Stephan drives my bus these days, we call out to each other as I get out.
"Have a great evening, RACHEL," he says, emphasizing my name.
To which I reply, "Thanks, you too, STEPHAN."
This morning a young woman got on with a baby in a stroller, sat in the front. There were a few hard-luck women sitting nearby - too many backpacks and tote bags, the tough, leathery look of someone who has been outside for far too long.
It barely took a minute for the those women to melt completely - grinning and waving at the baby, flirting with him, telling his mom how sweet he was. It was lovely.
posted by Rachel at 2:15 PM
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