On The Buses

A couple of years ago in a creative writing class, one of my classmates wrote a short piece about a collection of interesting strangers on a bus, observed by an unnamed protagonist. Discussion arose over who the unnamed narrator might be. I suggested that it was the bus driver.

But of course, Salad! That's what you're thinking. You obviously weren't in that class. And you're intelligent. And I think I love you because you recognise my brilliance. The author looked at me as though I was the most intellectually-deficient person and said, "yeah, but he's the driver. If he was watching people he would crash."

Never mind the term artistic licence (but he only has his bus licence), or the fact that there is such a thing as a rear-view mirror or that the bus driver has contact with everyone who gets on the bus. The thing is, the public transport system is a fertile ground to be farmed by even the most inept of writers.

Every day I witness a new narrative. A man finding God through music (possible drug addict raving about Jesus to an elderly lady), a mother and daughter bonding (they sat together every morning until the daughter's school friends started taking the same bus, but now the daughter's at uni they sit together every time), teenage boys becoming men (bunch of idiots texting their friend about a movie). It's all there!

The guy I like the most is a man who gets on the bus and reads from what looks like a diary. Yes, a diary. Not only that, but it looks like a girl's diary. It's pink, with a picture of flowers on the front. I see his lips move as he reads the diary and he always seems totally engrossed.

It is his diary? Has his teenage daughter run away and this is the only explanation, the key to unlocking the mystery of young women? Is he a creepo?

I prefer not to know, because the guessing is what makes it interesting. But the other day it was almost ruined by a woman desperate to bring down the walls of art, reveal the artifice of narrative like the Brechtian swine that she is. How did she almost achieve this coup for the realists?

She leaned over and asked him what he was reading. And he answered. But fear not, patrons of the arts! I didn't hear his response. What a relief.

Today a girl got on the bus with her baby. I've seen her twice before. Beautiful girl with clear skin, lovely hair, shining eyes. Every time before now I haven't heard her talking, just watched her playing with her adorable little girl. Well, tonight for the first time I heard her speak. And was disappointed. She is a total bogan. Oh well. That one was ruined but there will always be strange, beautiful people on the bus.

I wonder what they think of me in my corporate getup, white earphones jammed in my ears, my wayfarers concealing from no one that I'm asleep? Actually, I don't care. I'd rather just wonder about them.