The Wheels on the Bus

Sometimes, when I get off the bus, I want to start singing a variation of "The Wheels on the Bus," but I don't, because there are too many possible options (among other reasons). "The crazies on the bus go up and down, up and down, up and down"...or "The people on the bus should be institutionalized, institutionalized, institutionalized." Like I said, too many to choose from.

One time in particular stands out. (I've told a lot of people this story in person, so if you know me well and/or talk to me a lot, then you've probably already heard it, and may stop reading now). I was sitting on on the bus, on a particularly crowded morning, on my way to school, when a woman gets on, relatively inconspicuously, and sits down. What you need to realize, is that when I say "relatively inconspicuously," no part of your mind should think that means she looked like a normal person. She had a clear plastic head-wrap-thing (it wasn't raining), a white, puffy coat, and a matching white puffy bag. She sat down relatively close to me, just close enough that she was blocking my view out of the window. To make sure I knew where we were at all times, I had to occasionally turn my head in her general direction in order to see outside. The first time it wasn't a problem. She looked in my direction curiously, because for all she knew, I might have been crazy bus person. We made the awkward eye-contact that so often happens on a bus and then quickly looked away. The second time, she looked at me again, I looked away, satisfied that I was close to my stop. She then said "can I help you?" in one of the most shrill voices I've ever heard. I apologized and explained that I was just looking out the window. At this point she seemed like a paranoid, but not insane person. I turned my music down and started listening, instead of looking for the stops. A few minutes later, I wasn't doing anything: not looking in her direction, not even moving noticeably. I heard from my left (where she was) "will you quit whispering in my ear!" I did not move. I did not acknowledge that there was a person remotely near me. I did not know what to do, so I did nothing. Someone to my right asked her who she was talking to, and she replied "oh, no one. sorry."

I got off the bus that morning, humming the tune to myself, and walked into my Arabic classroom as if nothing happened. Because I would love to forget.