Finding Solace in the Seats of Our City Buses

So, I decided to let it sit in my driveway. And that’s where it’s been for the last year. So, how would I get to work uptown on West Anderson when I live on Oltorf? I could buy another car, but I’m through with those for a while. I could ride my bike, but I’m really not that in shape. Looks like I’m taking the bus. I thought I’d learn the routes, you know, just in case. Then, I’d figure something else out. Maybe buy a cheap motorcycle. But soon enough, I had become completely consumed in the lifestyle. All that I was before had completely disappeared. I became something entirely different, something sinister, a breed apart. I had become an unholy, unsavory, completely shady character only found lurking in the bad lighting of Austin’s Capital Metro. And you know what, I loved it.

The comforting firmness of the rigid seats, the strange and wonderful smells and the constant and engaging conversation with my intellectual peers had me hooked. No longer a slave to gas prices and I-35 traffic, I was free to roam all around Austin for only a dollar a day. Hah, it was the best kept secret in town. It’s like having the key to the city, only without all that responsibility and with much jerkier stops.

You go through many phases in long term bus riding. Let’s see, there’s the book-reading phase. Then, there’s the staring out the window while daydreaming and thinking, “I don’t have a dog, but if I did, I would never dress it up in people’s clothes,” or “I really wish I could find a hat that looked good on me, something to make me look tough and smart” phase. Finally, there’s the listening to the iPod while watching everyone closely and trying to figure them out phase.

For those of you who may have some stereotypes regarding what kind of people ride the bus, let me clear it up. Seriously, every type of person imaginable rides the bus. You’ve got your yuppies and hippies, college students and young professionals, homeless and handicapped, and every race and sexual orientation under the sun.

One of my favorite characters is a man I see a few days a week on my way home. He gets on downtown with a grubby beard, long tangles in his hair, slightly dirty clothes and mumbling to himself. Every time, he sits down and in a voice not unlike a 50-year-old, drunk Beavis starts up a one-sided conversation with the nearest person to him. But, even though I’ve been the object of his conversation on a few occasions, I have no idea what he’s saying....ever. He throws his arms around in wild gestures and the matts in his hair fling around, and you know whatever he’s telling you is very important to him. Maybe it’s something like, “I was the first person to discover the secret to faster than light travel, and it occurred while I was vacationing in the South of Spain.” He could be giving precise directions to an underground vault containing scores of untold riches that he stole in the many years he spent in Europe as a cat burglar/art thief, or he could be explaining what raccoon tastes like. One thing’s for sure, I’ll never understand why he has duct tape Xs on the elbows of his hooded sweatshirt. I asked him once, and all I received in return was a series of grunts and sighs. I’d like to think they have no purpose at all. Some things in this world are better left mysterious, I guess.

There’s a whole clan of super-obvious transvestites that ride sometimes, and not a one of them look like they have fully committed to the transformation. It’s either that, or they get really drunk when they get ready in the morning. Their adolescent makeup jobs, lumpy bosoms that look like they filled their bras with newspaper, 2-day-old stubble and the way they stumble every few steps in those heels are a dead giveaway.

That guy who sells nickel bags he keeps in his underwear was kind enough to inform me about the new Texas law that allows for simply ticketing misdemeanor marijuana possessors instead of arresting them.

Madame le Fou is what I dubbed the woman who rides on Friday mornings while wearing every single piece of jewelry she owns. Clad in mostly gold rings, necklaces, bracelets and even a broach or two, Madame le Fou just sits there until her stop comes up. She stares straight ahead and touches every piece over and over in an unvarying order while she mutters something just under her breath. She could be counting or reciting scripture, I don’t know.

But, everything seems sane in this world when compared to the indomitable conundrum that is Leon (another name I made up). I see him almost every day, and at varying times. I can never predict when I’m going to see Leon, but it’s always on the same route. He’s about 45 with a thick mustache and shoulder-length flowing hair that he pulls a comb through meticulously, which makes it even more wavy. He’s always wearing a western snap long sleeve (winter or summer) and blue jeans. He’s never really dirty, and I always figured he worked in an office somewhere. Or, maybe he was a janitor. But, two things threw me off.

One: I see him in the middle of the day sometimes when we should both be at work. Then, I see him that night and the next morning. So, I don’t think he has the time in his day to work. He’s way too busy riding the bus back and forth. How many times does he ride when I don’t see him?

Two: By the second week of seeing him on the bus, it dawned on me that he’s always carrying several bags. I see him carrying duffle bags, backpacks and suitcases. They’re all empty, and everyday they’re different from the day before. He gets on the bus downtown and rides up to around Koenig where he gets off with his bags and walks into a wooded area between two neighborhoods. When I see him the next day, he’s got all new bags.

He can’t have a job because it probably eats up all of his time searching the city for discarded luggage. The very next step is to follow him into the woods. I think I’ll find that he’s built an enormous structure out of these bags. It’s probably an intricate, multi-story dwelling with a dome, towers and no visible seams. I picture him toiling all through the night stitching together this fortress by the light of the moon, occasionally stopping to laugh and dance.