Tales from Subterranea
Stories by a journalist traveling around the Big Apple | This one is above ground.
Two strangers chatting in the middle of their paragraph of thoughts. They sat on the three seat bench at the front of the M20 bus heading north on Eighth Avenue. I silently joined the conversation when the bus stopped me across from the crusty Port Authority and picked me up in front of Schnipper’s where I had redeemed my $5 off birthday discount on my favorite sandwich. Grilled chicken on sourdough. Toasted.
At this particular stop, drivers switch out at the end of their run for a replacement. This driver picked up her belongings and stood on the bus steps peering around for the man or woman who would take her seat.
“Where is he?” she said loudly, interrupting the conversation, stomping her feet. Then she stepped out of the bus and left us alone, the bus running. What if we were hijacked? I think that way.
In the meantime, her passengers got acquainted. I took notes, typing into my cell phone and pretending to be texting.
Of this new couple, a man built like a bulky rectangle wore a Yankees cap and cargo shorts, a sturdy gray metal cane on his arm. The woman was dressed in a shapeless navy ensemble with a belt (I think she had a belt) and black Crocs and wore a white face mask so you couldn’t see her face. Her hair, black and frizzy, was pulled back by a rubber band. The man had no hair. They both held cloth shopping bags.
He grumbled about his surgeries on his legs, back, and neck.
The woman asked, “What kind of work did you do?”
He said that he had been a track inspector for the MTA and had come out of the subway tunnels to stand outside of the World Trade Center on September 11. No one needs a reminder of the year.
“I looked at them at 4 am,” he said. “By 10 am, they were gone.”
The bus was quiet.
“People forget about the transit workers,” he said.
The new driver climbed on. Bus riders clapped and cheered. The driver did a little bow.
By this time, my fellow passengers were old friends.
The woman remarked that her birthday is September 12.
“I’ll be 71,” she admitted.
“That’s my birthday, too,” he said. “I’ll be 72.”
“I can’t believe it!” she said, laughing, lightly tapping the man on his arm.
His stop was next. Another doctor’s appointment. He leaned onto his cane, stood up and kissed her on the cheek. And then he walked very much like a bowlegged gunslinger into the crowds of tourists.
The woman looked across at me.
“You never know what happens in New York City,” she said. “I wish I had recorded this.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I already had.
(Photo and video by Arlene Schulman)