Short Ride

THE END OF THE LINE

 

The 8th Avenue bus stops right in front of me. Inwardly I smile as I feel this is going to be a great, a lucky day for me. As the door opens, some jerk with a closed umbrella jabs me in the ribs and tells me to 'step on it. You're holdin' up the line, Lady.' As I grab the door bar, she gets a really dirty look from me. Making the one high step with little trouble, I drop my four dimes into the coin box. They jingle and disappear. The driver gives me a dirty look and says loud enough for the world to hear, 'Lady, you're short one dime.' Surely my embarrassment turns me into an Indian. I refute the driver, tell him I did drop four in as I had been holding them in my hand while I waited for him to appear. He argues with me and I argue back. I know he will win because those behind me are already complaining.

 

My wallet is in a fashionable huge purse, way at its bottom. Standing on one leg, trying to feel around the bottom of the purse, I want to crawl in a hole and die. I can't find a coin and my purse falls on the dirty floor. A heavy hand touches my rear end, reaches under my arm and holds out two nickels for me. He hands me my purse and my indebtedness may last a lifetime.

 

The bus is almost filled when we start off towards 12th St., our normal next stop. Fortunately I am able to find a seat, any seat, but one at the window cools my distress, lets me relax, use the aisle one to hold my big purse. The bus hits a small bump and darn if my purse doesn't fall over, land right in the middle of the aisle. Scwooching over, I bend down to retrieve it and it jumps up to bite me. Of all the people on the bus, about 40, the gallant giver of perhaps his last two nickels sits on the outside of the seat across from me. He hands me my purse.  It isn't heavy at all so I hold it tightly on my lap and offer the seat to my assistant. He takes it and I start fooling with the inside of my purse. Why am I carrying so much stuff I don't need? Where the devil is my wallet? Three lipsticks, a small unopened package of Kleenex, two pens that I know are dry and worthless, one that still writes, my house and car keys, a small but decorative hand mirror, my cell phone, all there. As I retrieve the phone from almost inside the purse lining, I hold it up and mumble, 'My heavens, where have you been for two days? You need charging.' Mr Noname, my new best friend, seems to be entranced by passing cars, annoyed by an adorable but noisy child, yet I wonder, am I imagining things? Is he glancing at me. Is he going to make a pass? 

 

The bus is about to reach 16th St. where I get off. I excuse myself and start to climb over the nice 'gentleman.' He stops me, looks squarely into my face and speaks, 'Miss. While you have your purse handy, will you try to find a dime down there in the dark?