Bus Stop

This was an observational exercise for my Print Journalism Workshop. Just observations, no personal interjections or narration allowed. My observations came from the Green Street Bus Stop in Ithaca, NY at 9:41 a.m. on a Wednesday.


"When's it s'posed to come?"

"Ten minutes ago."

Grunt. Ratty hiking boots scuff the sidewalk. The gray slush-sopped concrete squishes beneath them.

A hand rummages through a coat pocket. Keys jingle. Gum wrapper crinkles. Plastic card emerges. The Dijon mustard color is disguised only on the one side with glossy black letters: TCAT.

Creak, creak, creak, creak. Man with a baby backpack strolls by. Each step bounces with pride. Probably a boy in the back. He's bundled in a robin's egg blue blanket.

Yellow Labrador trots by. Squish, plop, squish, plop. Ears alert, eyes darting in every direction. Ears perked up, they bounce with each step. Owner strolls listlessly behind.

Scuff, plop, scuff, plop. More snow the color and consistency of raw sewage splatters.

Rrrru-ne-ne-ne-ne. The gaunt, sallow-skinned young man in the red Toyota revs his engine. Rrrru-ne-ne-ne-ne!

"What a douche."

Squish, slish, blech. Wheels spatter more snow-turned-sewage across the street.

"Dude, let's just walk."

"Nah, it's uphill!"

Snort. Then silence. Glances down the street. Back at his watch.

Waaah-koooh! Waaah-koooh! Pedestrian cross signal pierces the bitter winter air. No one crosses. No one pushed the button.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. Salt crackles beneath a lovey-dovey couples' boots -- Uggs on her and mud-stained Gore-texes on him.

Rock music blares from someone's iPod. Old school AC/DC.

Hey Satan! Payed my dues
Playin' in a rock band

Overweight mother and her gaggle of three kids wander to the stop. "Mommy, when are we a-gonna have lunch?" He tugs at her hand. "Just wait, we gotta take the bus home first," her voice growing higher and more sing-song with each syllable.

I'm on the hiiiiiighway to hell!

A distant hum. Everyone is on tip-toe, looking expectantly down the street.

A blue and white bus lurches down the slushy road. Coated in a thick layer of snow sewage and salt.

"Is that the 30?"

"I can't ... tell ..."

It's stopped at the light. Chuuuuuuuh! The driver lets off the brakes and bounds down the street toward the stop.

Squeeee! Brakes screech for a second. Slowing down, the driver becomes visible: a hefty bleach blond with dark roots.

She wags her sausage-like finger at the expectant passengers.

Whoooooooooosh! The bus whizzes past. Without stopping.

"Fuck."