Pics

Usually I opt for a seat near the middle of the bus, out of an instinctual desire to stay as close as possible to the rear exit. Also, the back is most commonly populated by "punks" who have more metal in their faces than the robot maid from the Jetsons. The disadvantage of this, however, is that I miss half of the stories on the bus, by virtue of their being behind me. And it's difficult to observe people casually when you have to keep turning around to look at them.

So today I suppress that drive and force myself to the back of the bus, whereby I hope to be able to witness the whole scope of its humanity.

Firstly, I'm amazed at how much more comfortable of a ride it is: the burps and hiccups of the road seem to be absorbed by the immense bulk of the chassis forward, and any surplus motion is transmitted to the rear in the form of a soothing, gentle wave. One could easily fall asleep in the warm, lulling embrace of a bus' rear end.

Secondly, my seat at the back is in the middle of the rear five seats, uninterrupted by an aisle. There is a person in seat #1 and in seat #5, so my presence in the middle consumes the whole remaining psychological seating space remaining, even though two more people could technically sit beside me. I watch with some amusement as a young, pierced punk boards the bus and makes a beeline for the back, only to discover that his cherished seat of seclusion is being occupied by some guy without any facial piercings. He turns back and finds a seat next to a sweet old Filipino lady, much to the discomfort of both.

Not surprisingly, it doesn't take long to find my story. Here's the engineer's version: a man and woman are looking at pictures on a digital camera.

But here's the storyteller's version.

They are both in their late 20's. He is shaved bald, and is rather chubby, sporting thick glasses, a plaid shirt, green denim pants, and sandals. She is short and squat, with a pleasant face and long, dusty blonde hair. She's wearing a grey zip-up hoody and tan slacks (which I'm told only women wear).

On the seat beside him is a large green canvas duffel bag with an airport tag on it. From their discussion, I pick up that she has just returned from a trip to the northeastern US; she has handed him her digital camera, and he's panning through the pictures on it. "This here is when we were in New York. People thought she was my sister!" she says, gesturing at the tiny screen with a mini-point. Over the course of the bus ride, she pulls out brochures she picked up from the various places she visited and excitedly shows him the images on them.

From the affectionate way she places her hand on his arm, it's clear they're romantically involved. Also clear is that he was not on the trip with her. He went to the airport to pick her up, and now he's escorting her home on the bus. This is a truly gallant gesture, for anybody can give you a ride home, but only a boyfriend truly confident in his lady's affection can pick her up on the bus.

It's obvious her affection is strong; her body language screams I missed you. They laugh at the occasional picture, smiling the whole while. Eventually the camera's supply of digital memories loops back to the beginning and they put it away, remaining silent in each other's presence. They are happy to be together again, and yet the strain of the time apart is clear. They truly have much to discuss.

There's my stop.