The Big Blue Bus
Meet me at the back of the blue bus
According to the Wikipedia
this line from the Doors’ "The End" "is almost certainly a reference to Indian mystic Meher Baba’s ‘Blue Bus’ tours of the 1930s." Are you buying this? I certainly ain’t. Because every L.A. musicologist believes that although Pete Townshend might have been a devotee of Meher Baba, Jim Morrison was referring to SANTA MONICA’S BIG BLUE BUS!
They say that the car companies colluded to kill the Red Cars. Which delivered reliable transportation throughout the L.A. basin.
I wish they’d bring the trolley cars back, because you can no longer go ANYWHERE in L.A. It’s constant gridlock. If only we had a public transportation system akin to London. Or Paris. Where unless you’re leaving town, it’s a liability to have a car.
Yes, Harry told me to just walk to the corner. There’d be a bus to Hammersmith every few minutes.
The 14th & 20th Crosstown is supposed to run every half hour. But dependable it’s not. Standing at the corner of 20th and Ocean Park at the appointed hour, I waited in vain.
And then I pulled a New York City move. I got into the middle of the street. Looking off in the distance for not a cab, but a bus.
Actually, a cab passed by while I was in my queue of one. I should have asked the guy to take me to the Saab dealer. But according to the sign my ride would be here in literally two minutes.
But what if the bus was running FAST? What if I’d already MISSED IT!
The parade of horribles started unfolding in my brain. What if the bus NEVER came. I wouldn’t be able to pick up my car, and then I’d miss my physical therapy appointment.
And the reason I HAD a physical therapy appointment is because my back had gone nuclear, because normally I just walk to the dealership, it takes less than half an hour.
So, if I started walking RIGHT NOW, I could probably make it. But at what physical cost? I started walking up the street, looking off on the horizon for the elongated blue vehicle. Fearful that if I saw it, I wouldn’t be able to make it to a stop on time. It would pass me by.
I made it all the way to Santa Monica City College with no bus in sight. But then, as I continued to stride towards my ultimate destination, I saw it off in the distance, appearing like at the end of "Ghost World".
And that’s how I felt. Alienated. Like a second class citizen.
You’ve got to maintain automobiles. I play by the manual. To avoid retribution down the line, when the manufacturer excuses needed repairs because of a lack of oil changes and top-offs. And I usually drive cars forever. Not that I plan on driving THIS car forever. It’s oh-so-fast, but oh-so-noisy. But the time had come for it to be serviced, and I’d left it at the dealership the night before and they’d called me to come and retrieve it and I couldn’t GET THERE!
Oh, they’ll pick you up in a pinch. But there wasn’t a pinch left.
I ran to the stop. And the bus didn’t. Even though there was a sign, the driver kept on moving. I started to freak, didn’t he SEE ME?
But I guess drivers have a mind of their own. He pulled up fifteen feet down the line. Twenty minutes after the appointed hour.
Now what’s the cost to ride the Big Blue Bus? I bet you don’t know. And neither did I. Which is why I went to the library last night, to garner some information. The map said it was only seventy five cents. But it had been printed in 2002. And the meter contraption by the driver had a slot for a dollar bill. Did I have a single? I’d picked up three quarters on my way out.
And you can’t ask the driver. Because they no longer speak. There’s an intercom, announcing every stop. Not that I knew that yet.
And they figure the only people riding the bus ALWAYS ride the bus, because everybody with ANY cash owns a car in L.A.
And I looked around the interior. Who RIDES the bus at a quarter to twelve in the afternoon? No one’s going to work then.
It was akin to the residents on the Group W Bench. I tried not to interact.
And then a stylish woman got on board. She had to own a car.
But then, when she got off at Olympic I saw that her belt buckle was an iron cross. Normalcy was not part of her canon.
And then a woman from beyond the grave got on. And sat RIGHT DOWN NEXT TO ME! There’s almost a completely empty bus but you want to be up close and personal?
I didn’t know whether I was being punked or it was the beginning of a horror movie.
And the driver was on his own schedule. He was barreling along, maybe he WAS ahead of schedule, since no one was riding the bus in the middle of the day.
Then a FRIEND of the driver got on. And started b.s.’ing like they’d been out partying the night before.
And I’m wondering whether to take the extra loop. To go ten minutes out of my way to be deposited four blocks closer to my destination.
But then we got stuck. At Colorado. Where a driver switch transpired.
A healthy woman with a posterior akin to the one J. Lo would possess if she ate at In-N-Out for every meal ambled onto the bus. And started WIPING IT DOWN!
Every inch of the driver’s space. She had her own stash of paper towels.
Now I’m thinking if there’s only ONE person in that space, an EMPLOYED person, and there are that many cooties, what about where I’M sitting?
And time is flying by. The new driver is now encasing her space in newspaper. But she demonstrates gross ineptitude. She’s brought along Scotch Tape for this purpose, but she keeps forgetting to stick it onto the glass. I almost wanted to get up and help, but it would have required reaching, and that wouldn’t have been good for my back, and I was worried what she’d say to me. For it was clear I was not a member of the club, and drivers only seemed to speak with those who knew the secret handshake.
Not possessing the password, I sat there, as time rolled by.
By now I’d decided not to take the loop. To get off as soon as we hit Santa Monica Boulevard. But would we ever GET THERE!
Finally the new driver sat her rump down and accelerated.
And in two blocks I got off.
And began feeling like a man again. Because even though NOBODY walks in L.A., pedestrians are a cut above those who ride the bus.
