A trip on the bus reveals an unfamiliar America

My fellow travelers appeared most of all to be burdened

By CHARLES M. SCHRADER

January 28, 2012 at 2:31AM
Bus/iStockphoto.com
Bus/iStockphoto.com (Susan Hogan — iStockphoto.com/The Minnesota Star Tribune)

The bus opened its door to passengers shortly before noon on Christmas Eve. After clumsily banging my head on the luggage rack directly above my seat, two rows behind the driver, I squeezed into an upright, upholstered chair that I would occupy for the next six hours, through nine stops, on my trip to Sioux Falls, S.D.

After quickly retrieving laptop, Kindle and a magazine from my computer bag, I began engaging passengers, making eye contact as they boarded our bus. My attention was soon diverted, though, by a white sign across the street announcing the presence of the Salvation Army, Harbor Lights, a harbinger of the journey ahead.

I hadn't ridden a commercial, long-distance bus since I first went off to college 47 years ago. Now, all these years later, I found myself traveling by bus once again, this time to greet my new grandson, born a few days earlier. I planned to meet up with my wife, who had driven our primary vehicle to Sioux Falls right after receiving the first hint from our daughter that baby Owen's entrance to the world was forthcoming.

As the bus backed away from its diagonal parking space, I began to do what most everyone does in public places: people-watch. Kitty-corner to me sat a large, middle-aged, bespectacled lady, bearing a worn, green Half Price Book bag, overflowing with tiny, individually wrapped chocolates.

Her dress and demeanor were modest: Brown jacket, zipped halfway up, partly covering a green turtleneck with rolled-up sleeves, that almost hid a horizontal scar and blotches of skin with little pigment.

She soon turned sideways, put her feet on the adjoining seat and tilted her head back. With mouth agape, she began to snore, an activity she would pursue vigorously all the way to her destination, some 75 miles west of the Twin Cities.

I couldn't help wondering who and what awaited this traveler at the end of her trip. Perhaps a parent whom she sees regularly at the holidays. Maybe a mom who wished life had been different for both herself and her daughter.

Hard to say. But this gal had the feeling of hard times, stacked end-to-end.

A few minutes later, a young man, perhaps 30, with a close-cropped, military haircut, wearing a stained white jacket and blue jeans, began to pace the length of the bus. He moved from rear to front, and back again, several times. Eventually, he landed in the first seat on the right, and began to anxiously query the driver as to when we could expect to reach his stop.

In clinical terms, the young man appeared to be hypervigilant, perhaps manic. The driver and I became alarmed when our young traveler put his head in his lap and cried out, "Oh, God." The driver asked: "Are you alright, Bud?"

He clearly wasn't. Had he just been released from a psychiatric facility? Or should he have been considering one? We would never know. But as with the lady with the chocolates, I imagined life had not been kind to this young man. He appeared lost, dazed, anxious, out of focus.

Our trip proceeded routinely for the next 30 miles or so, until a group of Hispanic gentlemen nervously challenged the driver, suggesting that he had missed their stop. The driver patiently explained his route, and the fact that he would safely deposit them where they wished to go in about five minutes. The men responded politely and settled back into their seats.

Soon we left these men standing next to what appeared to be an empty garage of some sort, smoking cigarettes, perhaps waiting for a ride that would never come.

At least another dozen passengers accompanied me on Christmas Eve day. Travelers, I suspect, with stories similar to the first group of folks, who I hoped had found their way home. People who don't own automobiles, and who travel light, carrying few belongings and no gifts. Folks who don't enjoy reading or busying themselves with electronic devices. People content to just sit and nod off.

Unlike the construction workers, students and families that I rode the bus with 47 years ago on my way to school, these burdened travelers appeared to be of a future time and place. From an America I don't recognize -- a place of inertia, ennui and despair.

Some suggest there are now two Americas. We would do well to ask ourselves: How did we come to such a place?

___

Charles Schrader, of Plymouth, is a retired family counselor and businessman.

about the writer

about the writer

CHARLES M. SCHRADER

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