I'm riding the 89 home because I missed the 87. We get to Laurel and turn from Main Street onto 5th Street, up one block to Montgomery, then start up the block with the Laurel Armory on the left and the elementary school on the right. Both sides of the street are jammed with cars, big-ass SUVs sticking out into the single traffic lane. The bus driver stops about 20 feet in. I can't do it, she says.
The bus is nearly wedged in between parked cars on either side. I can't see out this mirror, I can't go on, I'll never make it through, she says. I think maybe she should just inch forward until she knows absolutely she can't make it. How about if I go stand out there and watch your side and wave you through? I say.
I just now realize there's no one else but me on the bus. The lady bus driver is getting agitated. No, no need, I can see that I won't make it, she says. It's Back to School Night, I say. This happens every year.
Do you want to try backing out? I ask her. I'll direct you. I ain't backing this out nowhere, she says.
After a few fruitless conversations with passers-by, she says, I'm calling in. I can't take this no more. I'm done. Earlier this shift I got detoured because of the maniac in the Discovery building. Now this. I'm not doing this no more. She plants herself in her seat.
A local connect-a-bus pulls into Fifth Street right behind us, sits there blowing its horn.
What about you? she says to me. We're right in my neighborhood, I can easily walk home from here. I guess I'm going to abandon you, I say, feeling guilty. Are you gonna be all right?
She waves me off. I walk away, knowing that those cars will be there for another hour and a half, probably. And it will take Metro at least an hour to get some assistance out to this sweet little 89 bus driver. Good luck, I wish her, silently or out loud, I'm not sure.
The bus is nearly wedged in between parked cars on either side. I can't see out this mirror, I can't go on, I'll never make it through, she says. I think maybe she should just inch forward until she knows absolutely she can't make it. How about if I go stand out there and watch your side and wave you through? I say.
I just now realize there's no one else but me on the bus. The lady bus driver is getting agitated. No, no need, I can see that I won't make it, she says. It's Back to School Night, I say. This happens every year.
Do you want to try backing out? I ask her. I'll direct you. I ain't backing this out nowhere, she says.
After a few fruitless conversations with passers-by, she says, I'm calling in. I can't take this no more. I'm done. Earlier this shift I got detoured because of the maniac in the Discovery building. Now this. I'm not doing this no more. She plants herself in her seat.
A local connect-a-bus pulls into Fifth Street right behind us, sits there blowing its horn.
What about you? she says to me. We're right in my neighborhood, I can easily walk home from here. I guess I'm going to abandon you, I say, feeling guilty. Are you gonna be all right?
She waves me off. I walk away, knowing that those cars will be there for another hour and a half, probably. And it will take Metro at least an hour to get some assistance out to this sweet little 89 bus driver. Good luck, I wish her, silently or out loud, I'm not sure.
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