drinkerthinker

You get to the bus stop just as the rain begins. Fat summer raindrops, driven sideways by the wind, slide underneath the plexiglass walls of the bus shelter and soak your feet. “That’s fine,” you think, “at least I don’t have to walk two miles home in this rain.” The bus arrives - more or less on time - and you settle into a damp seat next to a leaky window.

After a few stops, the bus approaches a railroad crossing. The gates are down, warning lights flashing. So the bus stops and waits. And waits and waits. Then waits a bit more. After five or six minutes, the driver radios headquarters. “This is the 9:15 Outbound 83. I’m waiting at the Somerville Ave railroad crossing, and no train has come by. Are the gates broken?” The response is inaudible from where you are sitting.

The two women behind you chatter happily (you think) in Spanish, and you wish you could dredge up those six years of classes and understand what they are saying. The passenger across the aisle noisily accumulates the phlegm in his throat, then leans out the window to deposit it onto the pavement. A well-dressed man in his thirties walks to the front of the bus and surveys the situation (“I need to act involved.”). He tosses a chin-up nod toward the back of the bus and gets off. The recipient of the gesture wordlessly follows. If it weren’t for the rain, lightning, and questionable surroundings, you would too.

Passenger cars are now circumventing the bus and driving around the railroad gates. Two girls in the rear pause in their loud discussion about whether or not they will miss the television show they have to see tonight to comment that they “think that we should break it!” The tired part of you wishes that the bus would; the neurotic part is sure the train will come just as you attempt it. Several times you believe you hear the whistle of an approaching freighter.

Sixteen minutes have gone by. Finally (finally!) a commuter train speeds past. The three passengers you count within are unaware that you have been waiting for them to arrive. No wave or smile, no “sorry I’m late.” They just blur past, breaking your vigil at the tracks.

The bus driver closes the doors and shifts into gear. A brief, mandatory pause before actually crossing the tracks, and you are on your way again. And by the time you get off the bus to walk two final blocks home, the thunderstorm has passed.