#12 In Which Someone Falls Down

I am fairly certain that the bus driver who operates the 96^th Street Crosstown gets baked, stoned, high or whatever you choose to call it, before he starts his shift.  Today, on the way uptown from the AMNH Nell and I get on the bus at CPW barely making it from the C train subway transfer, scrambling up the stairs, hurdling some significantly deep puddles, knocking into a few people, almost, just almost, causing them to fall down. However, we get on the bus just as the doors are closing.  Catching the Crosstown on a rainy, cold day in this manner is one of the most satisfying experiences one can have in life, which says a lot, or really not much, about my life.

Whoopie!  We got the bus!! Let’s pop open a bottle of Moet when we get home to celebrate.

Immediately, I smell it.

A few others squeeze on after us violating the ‘no standing in front of the line’ rule. Mr. Buzzdriver does not seem to mind this, or the fact that a woman’s shoe is actually stuck in the door. Looks like she’ll be waiting a little while to get that tiny mess worked out.

The bus is packed solid with unhappy riders and not one of them has the decency or courage to say aloud what I am sure everyone is thinking: “ok, who is smoking pot on this vehicle?”

I have caught this exact same bus (hyperbole, yes, but I’m talking about my bus rides here so forgive me) at West End Avenue & 96^th late at night. The bus sits there dark and seemingly empty and looking rather lonely and forlorn.  I,  and usually someone else on their way home from a serious soccer match, patiently wait until the bus driver decides to rev up the old dinosaur and allow us to get on. When we do: Whoa! Someone has definitely been smoking something sweet and tangy in  here. Hold on, we are going for a ride! (Except with no enthusiasm).

I adjust my eyes to the nauseating fluorescent lights and try to figure out how the driver works this repeated plan out without anyone saying anything. It’s pretty gutsy and I’m too tired to think much more about it and only slightly concerned about breathing in the second-hand cannabis.  I am not interesting in partaking in herb in this way, and am only slightly annoyed to be put in a position to have to think about it. The ride is uneventful except for conscious consideration of this week’s installment of, Where’s Waldo's Weed?

So, back to today’s more pressing incident.  

Nell and I are separated when she gets a seat and I see her trying to avoid eye contact with a rather imposing looking guy who may or may not be talking to her, or anyone. I can tell by her furrowed brow and confused look that she isn’t sure she is reacting the correct way in this social situation. It’s an anthropological exercise to watch her negotiate this without any assistance from me and I am torn between wanting to make eye contact with her and reassure her through sign language instructions, or watch her handle it on her own, hoping the stranger isn’t some deranged predator. She seems okay and I’m proud. As we are almost last on and first off on this journey, I wonder how the second hand pot inhalation has affected our fellow travelers. Is this stranger, who in my opinion maybe on the fringe of inappropriate contact with my daughter, under the influence of marijuana?

Perhaps I am just paranoid.