But the knee is nearly healed now, and I’ve vowed to walk
the six miles home after work today, so the #4 bus is where I am this early
morning before dawn.
Things change quickly when you don’t pay close attention,
and I’m startled this morning by how many different faces are on the bus this
morning. From my elevated seat midway back in the big electric hybrid bus, I
find myself studying one of the unfamiliar faces, Margret, who sits as close to
the front as she can. Margret bears a passing resemblance to Stockard Channing
from the era of the movie “Grease. ” She has the same short dark hair and
similar features to Ms. Channing. In age though, Margret is pretty close to Stockard
Channing’s current age, which makes the very dark hair a bit out of place and artificial.
Margret talks steadily to the bus driver, and from nature of
the conversation I know that they are new acquaintances, since the dialogue
speaks to basics about their families, their jobs. If they had known each other even
a few days, some of these questions and answers wouldn’t need to be discussed.
The pitch of Margret’s voice is such that I can hear her clearly. I cannot hear
the bus driver at all, but can get the gist of the conversation just from
Margret’s questions and answers. I learn, for example, that Margret cannot
tolerate caffeine any longer, and that her favorite vacation spot is Florida.
She has three grown children, only one of which really likes her. Her husband
passed away three years ago, and she can’t believe it’s been that long. Seems
like last week that he passed.
People like Margret fascinate me and make me a little
jealous. She is one of those people, as is my wife, who thrives on social
communion. People like this seek interaction with people, the more people the
better. In moments of discouragement or dejection, these folks gain energy from simple social contact with many people. For
others of us, though, rejuvenation is found in solitude. Though I’m not a traditionally
religious fellow, it is when I’m in utter solitude in a natural setting—deep in
a woods or off in a prairie meadow—that I feel the presence of the gods. It’s
not that I believe with Jean Paul Sartre that “hell is other people,” exactly—I
very much enjoy being with a few close friends.
But a crowd of people surely isn’t heaven for me. Walking alone in the
mountains, though, is indeed nirvana. I do envy Margret, though. Life would be easier, I think, if crowds of people invigorated you.
It is still completely dark in this early morning hour, and
as the bus passes Bryant Park, strings of white LED lights in the skeletal trees
reflect down into the smooth surface of a skating rink. The reflection in the
ice looks like strings of translucent pearls. A lone young man who is wearing hockey-style
skates sails noiselessly around the ice, doing maneuvers that seem more like
figure skating than hockey moves. I’m charmed by the idea of this young fellow
choosing to go out for a skate at 6:45 am in the morning. It is a very
Minnesotan thing to do.
As the bus begins to fill up, the conversation between
Margret and the bus driver begins to quiet down. Whether this is because they
have exhausted the conversational topics appropriate between strangers, or
because they don’t want to disturb the now-larger group of passengers, is
unclear. Politeness would be a likely reason, because this, too, is a very
Minnesotan virtue.
I recognize very few of the passengers today, but near Lake
Street, the bus is boarded by Frank, whom I do recognize. Frank is a 70-something
black man wearing a cowboy hat and western-style suede jacket covering a white
chef’s uniform. It’s never been clear to me which downtown restaurant he works
at, though it has to be one that serves breakfast. Frank pats each of the
passengers in the first few seats at the front of the bus—the two facing rows
that traditionally has been the home of the passengers who
like to chat amiably across the aisle in the mornings. Further back in the bus,
the passengers tend to be those who spend the time scrolling on their smart
phones or reading the newspaper. Or those whose recreation is studying the
other passengers and imagining their lives.
Although the up-front passenger greet Frank warmly, after he
sits down Frank quickly fades into silence. Though a friendly and social man,
I’ve never seen him engage in a lot of chit-chat in the morning. He always
seems quite comfortable to be alone with his thoughts.
As we near Franklin Avenue, I see a Victorian-style home in
which the residents have placed one of those programmable electric signs in the
front picture window—one of those that can be programmed to flash verbal
messages. This one flashes a two-line message: “Nasty Women,” “Live Here,” it says repeatedly in red lights
arranged in small dots. I reflect on my good fortune to live in a city where
the liberalism is strident and sometimes slightly angry. For example, the very
next day after Donald Trump’s edict regarding restricting entry to the U.S. by Muslims, more than 5,000 people spontaneously appeared in front of
the Federal building in downtown Minneapolis in protest. Nearly 100,000
appeared during the women’s march after the presidential inauguration. I very
much like this quality of my city.
The sky has pinkened by the time I step off the bus at the
corner of Hennepin Avenue and Fourth Street in downtown Minneapolis. I am
slightly sad to be leaving the bus, and I think that someday when I have
transitioned into full-time retirement, I shall sometimes ride the bus in the
pre-dawn hours. Just for the fun of it.
