Editor’s Note: This story was originally published in 2012. No details have been changed so as to retain the spirit of the original story.
The fence loomed behind me, a tall and ominous allegory to my car-less prison…
The morning had started off well. Sitting in the bus hut, I sat confidently waiting for the 22 bus to arrive at Rolfe Square. Having recently started The Game of Thrones novels, I picked up my Kindle and started reading, looking up just in time to see the 22 bus drive past on the opposite side of the street. “They’re probably just turning around,” I told myself, subduing throbs of anxiety that were building in my chest.
Moments later, I sighed with relief as the 22 pulled up. Boarding, I couldn’t help but smile up at the middle-aged Chinese bus driver, who returned my smile with a perplexed stare. As I moved towards a vacant seat, I glanced around; there were five sets of tired eyes staring back at me. My phone rang, and I was happy for the distraction. The cheery voice of my mom on the other line was partially drowned out by the intermittent whirring of bus engines, but it was comforting nonetheless. Confidently, I boasted of my first “successful” bus ride, ignoring glances from the others and laughing naively; they must have known I made a mistake.
I looked up and saw it—the long fence adorned with barbed wire, intended to keep the inmates of the Adult Correctional Institute in and fools like myself out. “Aren’t we supposed to go to Kennedy Plaza?” I muttered to the bus driver, dreading her words to follow. Without so much as a look, she pointed across the street and simply remarked, “No.” How had this happened? The Supervisor had told me the 22 was the correct bus, and I made sure to walk past Rolfe Square yesterday evening to ensure a victorious first ride.
Aghast with uncertainty, I picked up my overstuffed backpack and walked across the street to the RIPTA bus stop, untrusting of the old woman’s advice. Sighing, I decided that phoning a friend was the best way to ensure a ride to work. Always eager to help and outwardly worried about my decision to ride the bus, J came to my rescue as she has done so often before.
“Thanks, I really appreciate this,” I exclaimed, my voice grayer than the overcast sky, unwilling as ever to ask for help. Heat poured from black car vents, a make-shift hairdryer that still managed to turn J’s golden hair smooth as glass. Speeding down the highway, we laughed and chatted as she dried her hair and I changed out of my “bus” clothes and into my “work” clothes. I felt a little better once dressed, trying to subdue the red tide of anger ebbing inside me.
Wanting retribution, I called RIPTA on my lunch break to determine what had gone wrong…
Simply put: I had sat on the wrong side of the street.
Erin Rides the Bus 