Why I hate public transportation

I tend to go somewhere else in my mind when I'm taking public transportation. If I have a fabulous fiction book, I'll escape entirely through reading. If I have to read for school, I'll usually zone out by looking out the window intermittently with trying to skim a few pages.

It's a lot of smelly people crammed into one little space on the bus or train, and I want to avoid eye contact in case a Crazy shows up, but I also want to make sure I'm not depriving the elderly, the pregnant, or the parent of a seat they need. Worse, I HAVE to take public transportation. I can't afford a car. I can barely afford MTA.

I usually watch the fortunate as they drive by in their minivans and beat-up sedans. At one bus stop, I saw one young man sitting in the front seat of a minivan, holding a shaking (from tininess and indignation, apparently) white dog on his lap. He laughed with the driver as the dog barked at something. The car sped off as the light turned green, while I sat in my seat, waiting for more people to get on the bus.

Despite the smells and possibly contagious diseases transferred by coughs or sneezes, MTA isn't too, too bad, especially when you manage to catch it during an off-hour, when everyone is already at work or school. I've never had a problem with completely careless driver, and cars usually respect the bus.

Or, cars did respect the bus.

This morning, I watched people through the window per usual. My brain was tired, and my anthology of plays lay open in my lap, unread. Jewish neighborhoods are always fun. I look to see what they are wearing, and try to guess if they're married or not. We were inching past the light near a synagogue. Having spied all the personalities I could catch, I then looked down, still through the window, eyeing a car that was trying to make a right turn. The car turned, ever so slowly, and I waited for the car to stop. The bus was clearly in the way -- half past the car. But the car didn't stop, in fact, the car continued to turn -- into the bus.

It wasn't a bang or a thump; it was a crackle. The car crackled into the bus.

The bus driver pulled the bus over, and told us all to get off. She was clearly annoyed. We filtered off, some not even realizing what had happened, and crossed the street to head back to the bus stop. Pieces of the errant vehicle littered the road, cracking under passing cars.

Another bus came by five minutes later, which was rather anti-climatic, I thought. I had envisioned missing class, and having to send my professor an email explaining that I'd missed class because my bus had been hit by a car -- and worried that I wouldn't be able to prove it.

No need. I made it to class with three minutes to spare, ready to burst out to my friends that MY BUS HAD BEEN HIT. BY A CAR. But I knew they wouldn't have been impressed. After all, nothing had burst into flames and no blood has been spilled. Next time, I suppose.