Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Sigh. Ok, so I'm the only person at the bus stop, and yeah, I'm talking on a cell phone, so was that it? I make eye contact with my #30 bus driver, whose bus is on time, and who notes me as standing on the sidewalk, looking up in anticipation, but the stupid man doesn't slow down. . . and . . .yeah, he just passes me up. . . .
Ummmm. . . .
So, am I supposed to be standing in the weeds and trash of the easement in order to indicate my "want to take bus" status? this is a bus stop, right? Am I supposed to flag down the Metro, as if it were a New York cab?
Was this driver hoping I was really waiting for the other line that stops at St. John and Lawndale? Color me naive.
I hate to say, "Paxil told you so," but it turns out that all my pre-bus-taking anxiety was not for naught.
I wasn't afraid of encounters with humans, but with being late. I gave myself 50 minutes to make a seven-minute car trip. Or a 70-minute walk.
Twenty-eight minutes and about 21 blocks later (all uphill), I connect with the very next 30 bus, which I "greet" emphatically by stepping into the weeds and mud at Benton, even raising my hand a little, just to be sure.
So, eight minutes before I'm supposed to be where I'm supposed to be (about 12 more blocks), I'm finally on the $1.25 bus, paying to rest for about six blocks. Of course, there's that detour I spoke of, and then I'm back off track, ringing the "get me off" chime. I didn't want to get even further off track, you know. . . .
Since I'm kind-of dumb about what order all the streets are, even though I have been trying to pay attention for six years, it turns out I disembarked too early, but it could have been too late, since, with the detour, I'm five blocks off target anyway. I guess. Maybe. I didn't pick up a printed schedule on the bus. Too embarassed about not knowing where the money hole was. Dropping a penny and sweating all over the place, etc.
at 4:37 PM