![]() ![]() One young man gets on and sees somebody he knows: “What’s up, brother?” They chat a bit. Past the Grand water tower, the bus starts to empty by Broadway, only a few people are left. As we roll north, he rests his head on his friend’s shoulder, heedless of her hot-pink bra strap, dozing like a little boy. His T-shirt is stretched over a humped back, and a cardboard sign telling the world he’s homeless and hungry is tucked under his arm. A young man feeds coins into the fare box, legs spraddled for balance as the bus heaves. An old man boards, toothless but dapper in a straw fedora, his maroon striped shirt crisp, his brown jacket now baggy. I catch snatches: “Go ballistic on you… Everybody’s so mad all the time.” Up front, a teenager with the blurred features of cognitive deficit naps, her head slumped. A man follows, muttering, “Don’t make no goddamned difference who gets on the bus first. I just don’t like you.” A little girl and her mother make their way to the back, the child using seated passengers’ shoulders to keep her balance. ![]() A thickset middle-aged woman with a face that’s seen no coddling wears a T-shirt that reads, “I’m not mean. ![]() The door’s shutting and people aren’t getting out of her way.Ī silver-haired man as fine-boned as Nat King Cole, wearing a pale-blue shirt embroidered “Maintenance,” talks about Channel 9. “Back door!” a woman holding a baby carrier in front of her yells at the top of her lungs. But as their stop approaches, they snap into tense vigilance, craning forward, then rise and push past people grabbing posts and straps. 70 Grand bus-the busiest by far, with about 9,000 boardings a day-people lucky enough to get a seat ride in a daze, lulled into the weird passivity of being transported. ![]()
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