Life on the 61A or 61B:
Whichever One Comes First

Erin Rhodes

When I was in high school, I rode the Pittsburgh Port Authority Transit bus regularly. I used to wait at a bus stop with a rain protector. What are they called? Can’t think of it right now. Anyway, the bus stop was a couple of blocks away from my school. I’d take the 61A or 61B, whichever one came first. Riding the bus was a big part of my life back then. It’s where I thought great thoughts and dreamed great dreams. The bus took me from the intelligence and culture of Oakland, Pennsylvania to the very different intelligence and culture of Swissvale, Pennsylvania. A world apart, one bus-ride away.

Through the years, I’ve learned to appreciate the bus’ charm, and in fact, find travelling on it to be a very enlightening experience. There’s something truly communal about the whole bus concept. A bunch of people, sometimes crammed like sardines, sharing the same oxygen. It’s all in the name of good ol’ public transportation. Strangely enough, buses seem primitive to me at this place in time. We revel in our privacy, our isolation from the rest of the herd. We spread out. If there’s space, we use it. But on a bus, you have no choice. Whether seated in the front, the back, or the middle, we are challenged, by others, to speak, to ignore, to observe, to avoid. Maybe I’m thinking too much about it. But there are worlds colliding on a bus-ride home.

No one on the bus knows who I am. That’s the best part about the ride home. This is an ideal time for me to test out new personalities. Since I’m an actor, I can get away with that, or at least pretend to. I think it’s normal, though. We all like to be watched. Even if just for a couple of minutes—to be somebody else through the eyes of a complete stranger. It can be exhillarating. I want someone to look at me and wonder about my life and who I am behind my eyes. I look around and wonder the same things about those whom I see. It’s an endless collage of workerbees. I want to know the stories inside the briefcases, the grocery bags, the purses, the bookbags. Just speak to me, and tell me about it. That’s all I want to say.

I remember the time, when I was still in high school, my friend, Ellen and I rode the bus, pretending we were foreigners. We never had the guts to do anything more rebellious than speak gibberish to each other in public places. Oh, we also tried to look into the window of some guy’s house one time, but that’s another story. There we were, sitting next to each other on the bus, speaking in some tongue that resembled Italian. As I remember this pathetic little scam and visualize it, I’m pretty sure that people knew we weren’t Italian, but instead just thought us to be annoying, little Catholic-school-girls—which is indeed what we were. At the time, we thought we had everyone fooled. It’s amazing what perspective can do, and of course, a little maturity.

The most interesting, and sometimes the most lonely times on the bus, were when I was alone. I had no cohorts, no fiendish friends to back me up in being a freak. Yes, I was a freak back then, probably even more so than I am now. Whenever I was in a public place, I had to do something to draw attention to myself. However, it always involved bothering other people in the process. Talking to strangers. Singing annoying songs in their ears. Bumping into people on purpose. These were all trademark Erin moves. But when I was alone, the dynamic was different. I had never thought before that I had engaged in such antics to impress my friends. I had always believed that it just made me happy, and that’s why I acted crazy. But then, why was it that I was somehow silenced, somehow shy, when I was alone? Where was my courage then? As I said before, maturity creates new perspectives. And I see now that my behavior was definitely about impressing people, but I also knew that being part of a group protected me, to some extent, from those very strangers I was playing upon. When you’re alone and acting like an fool, you have to face the consequences. So, it’s far easier to just play it safe and be the responsible citizen. Act pensive.

That brings us to another great dilemma of the bus experience: what to do when you have nothing to do. By that, I mean, you have no book or magazine to read. No friend to talk to. And there is a whole line of disgruntled-looking, straight-mouthed folks sitting across from you. It certainly seems as if they are sizing you up. Chances are they’re just sleeping with their eyes open. Yet still, it’s dangerous. You’re scared. What do you do? Usually, I read the advertisements above their heads. Hmmm, let’s see. Okay. Planned Parenthood. Good, good. I’ll know what to do if I get into “trouble.” I can only pretend to read these things for so long; I have to avert my eyes to some other point. Absolutely no eye contact. Eye contact dangerous. Must avoid eye contact. Shit!! Didn’t avoid eye contact. There she isŠ big, old woman, her eyes piercing holes through me. I’m sorry I exist. I’m sorry I exist. If you give me a chance, I’ll change. Wait, what am I thinking? I didn’t do anything to her. It’s not my fault she’s fat and has to carry all of those bags up the hill to get to the Section 8 house she lives in. Wait, wait. Did I just say that? What I meant was hey, lady, don’t look at me like that. I’m a person just like you. If I were an elitist, I wouldn’t even be on this bus, right? After a while I realize, that look isn’t meant just for me. It’s as if her face is captured in stone that way. Tough day? But she’s not the only one. Why do people look so angry when they ride the bus? I’ll give you five bucks if you smile at me. But I’m not smiling at her. That would be too difficult, too much of a risk.

The woman about whom I just spoke, I refer to as a “Mary.” Mary’s wear tired, empty expressions. An empty expression—I guess that’s an oxymoron, but I like the fact that it’s alliterative better than I dislike the fact that it’s an oxymoron, so I’ll keep it in. Mary’s look as if they’ve just gone to Hell and back and know they have to do it all over again tomorrow. Then there’s “Ethel.” Ethel is an old lady with one mere shopping bag from a whole day of shopping downtown. She white-knuckles her senior citizen pass with pride all the way home. And who can forget the “Tiffany’s” ? Tiffanies are young mothers with loud, obnoxious kids who like to stare at me. Hey, I never said this essay wasn’t going to be filled with false stereotypes. Not all Tiffanies have to be young and unwed, though.

All I know is that if you’re lucky enough to be on a bus during rush hour, you’re bound to somehow be involved in the following scenario: You are standing in the middle of the bus, white-knuckling one of those bars, and your book bag is hitting all those around you with every move you make. You’re hovering over a sleeping “Mary,” trying to avoid Tiffany’s kid, whose picking his nose and putting what he finds up there God knows where. The worst part is that there is a cute guy sitting directly behind you, and all he sees is your fat ass bouncing up and down as you try to navigate your tightly-gripped body through the bumpy streets of Pittsburgh. Don’t hit anyone. Don’t touch anyone. Must hold body tight. Control body. Do not fall into sagging bosoms of sleeping Mary. You suddenly find yourself straddling people you never thought you’d straddle. And then you wonder why, in your personal life, you don’t find yourself in this position more frequently.

It’s enough to make you break into hysterics. There are, however, a lot of good things that have happened to me on the bus. Once I sat next to an older woman, a former teacher. She was so eloquent; I couldn’t believe she was on the 61A. Again, since then, I’ve realized what an elitist I was. She talked about how much schools had changed, and even though I was a high school student, I felt as if she treated me as her peer. To her, I was just another adult on the bus. Ever since then, I’ve actually forced myself to talk to people on the bus. Not in a bothersome way, but in a way that says “hey, we’re both here for the ride. We might as well talk to each other.” And that’s what it’s all about. Talking, learning, enjoying someone elseŠ even if you’re never going to see them again.

When you’re waiting at that bus stop, there’s a certain camaraderie that forms among the waiters. Mine sat on Forbes Avenue in Oakland, Pennsylvania. I remember waiting there for up to a half an hour in snow, rain, wind. If I’m there long enough, I’ll turn to the woman next to me and ask, “When did the last 61A or B go by?” When the bus finally does arrive, it’s as if I’ve won the lottery. It makes me feel so happy, as if I thought there was a chance it might not arrive at all.

Since high school, I’ve had some cool times on the bus. It’s difficult, though, for any to compare with those days of watching people and wondering where they were coming from and who they were going home to. When I was a Junior in high school, I wrote this about the bus: “I’m so gung-ho about the bus and the strangers who share some twenty minutes of their day together on it, that I can actually imagine meeting my future husband on the bus. I see it as a place where all the car-less, working-class folks of Pittsburgh can silently bond.” Wow. What I cheeseball I was. Strange thing isŠ although maturity changes some things, I still feel the same today.

So there you have it. To me, riding the bus is a lesson in life. A lesson in people and in remembering to wear deodorant. But seriously, I really do enjoy riding the bus. It creates a time for me to relax (sometimes), wonder, and laugh between destinations.