Fish & Chips: Busses: The great equalize

A veiled Muslim woman, a student in her school uniform bopping along to the pop music on her headphones, a burly construction worker, a single mother holding her son while he giggles and pulls my hair, a businessman whose car is at the shop, an unemployed man whose family has been out of work since the mines closed in the ‘80s and a hunched elderly man who stands, refusing any seat offered to him. All these people become my equals as we travel together on turquoise bus number 78 to the Nottingham city centre.

However, there is one man or woman who is not our equal on those giant, double decked cultural capsules that whip through town. The bus driver decides our daily fate. He or she gets that old man to his appointment at the hospital, the single mother to day care and work and students to class in time. Controlled by a timetable, very few bus drivers have the mercy to stray from their allotted 15 seconds per person per stop. (It’s true! I was just informed of that time limit by a bus driver today.)

After I’d taken my seat one day, a man sprinted past my window toward the bus door. Clutching a briefcase to his chest with one arm, he waved the other arm frantically. I figured it was very important for this man to catch our bus. The bus driver promptly shut the door and drove away, leaving the frantic latecomer only a foot from the door. Giving a helpless, frustrated shrug the latecomer’s eyes darted from the slow-moving city centre traffic to the next bus stop, just across the busy intersection and a block down the road. I silently cheered him on as he raced into the traffic behind us. He did pass us when the bus had stopped at a traffic light, but as we quickly overtook him, I again saw his frantic glance at our bus. At the next stop, a line of people was waiting to load the bus, but I didn’t see the frantic man until the doors closed and, once again, he flashed by my window, one arm outstretched. This time his eyes met the bus drivers’ just as we pulled away without him for the second time. I’m not sure
how that bus driver sleeps at night.

Yes, we owe much to our bus drivers, and for this reason, I’ve adapted to the way Brits express their thanks as they leave the bus. It’s a small accomplishment, but vital to feeling like a Nottingham resident: I can confidently say “cheers” to my bus driver before stepping off onto the pavement. It took much practice to achieve the delicate balance between sounding like a hick American outsider and sounding like a hokey American with a too-posh accent, but I believe I’ve done it.

Cheers!