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.
So where were we?
The surface value of their stereotypical “Rhode Islandisms” could not be ignored; from their quintessential Rhode Island accents to the unmistakable Italian features I felt like I was watching a live episode of the Sopranos. Outspoken and always joking, they were kind and young at heart.
As we drove towards Kennedy Plaza, more people filed onto the bus. About five miles from KP, the man with the hat stood up and walked to the door. As he stood he put his hat on backward and then reached down to help an elderly lady up the steps and into his seat. Neither party spoke, nor did they have to. It seemed customary for the man to help when help was needed– hence his comment to me about the transfer– and symptomatic of old age for her to receive help gracefully. She sat down and spoke with several people who were seated behind me. They all asked her about a man named Jon… I found myself wondering whether it was her son or grandson, or perhaps even a brother. Her face was deeply wrinkled, and she had had a funny little cap placed on top of her fading hair. As soon as she sat down she smiled; she reminded me of my grandmother.
At the next stop, a young black kid sat down next to me wearing jeans and a purple polo shirt. I said hello and asked how he was doing; I can vividly remember how bright and wide his smile was against skin that was dark ebony. He was young, still in high school, and we chatted for the remainder of the trip to Kennedy Plaza. He was heading to school, myself to work, and I left him with the words, “Don’t grow up too fast.” Dazzlingly he smiled again and reassured me that he wouldn’t.
The man in the hat was perched right next to Jonny the bus driver, their conversation now out of earshot. I stood up prematurely and walked to the front of the bus, standing next to him. He jokingly told me not to jump off the bus, that we still had to go around the loop; I couldn’t help but smile at him. I wanted to know where he was going in those blue Dickies and worn-out Timbs, the hat still backward on his head. Right before the bus came to a stop, he leaned over and said softly, “By da way, his name was Coppa.”
Erin Rides the Bus 