The Art of the Bustrip

Lately, I have been riding the Ashland bus and often feel that particular rout has a charm that I cannot quite distinguish. Often the bus itself is out of sorts -- spent shocks, leaking air conditioner (when there is air conditioner) but mostly there is something about the community on the bus. It is a strange mix and atmosphere of people, one that seems as if it could either burst out into a beerhall style sing along, or a massive brawl. With this in mind, I often feel like initiating the beerhall sing-along, but the choice of which song to start up eludes me, as does the true reason the Ashland bus is such an experience. Perhaps it is that it both goes over a bridge and under a bridge and at night it feels particularly urban. Or it could be like today when I saw the king of all homeless man fumbling for his fair while really riding to his stop. This man moved so amazingly slow I thought for a moment that I was privy to some form of 'relational street theater' starring this man, who has spent that last 40 years studying tai chi and adopting its moves to digging in one's pockets, searching one's T-shirt for an elusive and imaginary breast pocket, of probing just so the folds of a well worn and vaguely complicated wallet, all paced to the trained sense of the bus driver's tolerance.