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I met him on a cross-town bus, an express bus, to be exact. Naturally, when I saw it pull up to the bus stop for the first time, I assumed that “express” meant that it didn’t have all the normal stops, but would take me directly to the destination exhibited prominently on the large black-and-yellow neon sign above the driver’s windshield, “Civic Center”. After the third or fourth consecutive stop to take on and let off passengers, I muttered under my breath to no one in particular, “Pphhhhh… some express.”
The guy sitting next to me looked up from his copy of Urban Adventurer, shot me a s**t-eating grin before once again directing his eyes toward his magazine. “First day out of the joint, pal?”
Just like that. Suddenly, this total stranger has assessed my entire life. I looked out the window at the cars passing and I wished I could be in one of them… pick one, it didn’t matter which.
“Imagine my luck, first day in town and having the good fortune to sit down next to Billy Busmaster.” I had to say something, for God’s sake.
“Look, man, I didn’t mean any offense. Express buses are able to drive in lanes designed expressly for them.” Urban Adventurer was now sitting on the seat, and Billy grabbed me by the arm. He urged me to a standing position and put his head against the window, urging me to do the same, pointing down at the pavement under us. “See those solid white lines separating this lane from the rest of the street? This is what I’m talking about… no vehicles except buses can drive in this lane during rush hour.”
Well, at least the explanation is logical. “Okay, so if I understand the premise correctly, a person has no reason to expect that express might mean ‘faster than an ordinary bus, or without as many stops’?”
“No…” Now he was grinning, obviously satisfied with his performance.
“No, what?” I asked.
“You’re right, I mean.” Now Urban Adventurer was rolled up tightly as he prepared to sit back down.
“I’m right?” I asked.
“Absolutely!” Billy sat down and folded his arms, never taking his eyes off me, giving me that look that made it abundantly clear he regarded me a bit of a dim bulb.
“So, if I were going to design a public transportation line that would go from point A to point B without stopping at every street corner, what would I call it?” Take that, Smartass…
“Well, I don’t know what you’d call it, but I’d call it a subway.” Standing, he pulled the cord running along the top of the window, signaling the driver to stop at the next stop. As he walked the few feet up to the egress steps, he grabbed the pole and looked back at me.
“Don’t worry, dude, you’ll get the hang of it. Just tell your parole officer you got on the express instead of the number 13… he’ll understand.” And he was gone.
Twenty minutes and ten stops later, I stepped off the bus and walked up the steps to the Federal Courthouse. Freedom may hold a little more challenge than I anticipated.
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