Stopped at the Yes natural foods store for some fresh basil yesterday afternoon (my neighborhood Giant has chicken feet with claws intact and neon plastic folding chairs, but no fresh basil), and decided to catch the bus home from Adam’s Morgan. I waited at the hooded bench while the bus pulled up and whipped out my Smartrip card (I get really anxious and flustered if I don’t have specific counted change or a fully funded Smartrip card in hand BEFORE boarding).
As I stepped up, I saw her profile and tried to conceal my surprise.
There she sat, indie-girl extraordinaire, complete with her cherry-red hair, cut into a neat wedge (longer in front, shorter in back). She wore sequin-y black hoop earrings, and I could have sworn she was wearing black nail polish.
Was I surprised that she was young? Yes.
Was I surprised that she was white? Yes.
Was I surprised that she was female? Yes.
Was I surprised that she was pretty? Yes.
Was I surprised that she had a pretty hip sense of style? Yes.
Was I surprised that she greeted me with eye contact, a smile, and a hello? Yes times five.
I was so excited to see her, because she defies the norm. I try not to take cabs in DC, since they’re a bigger rip off than Sea Monkeys, but every time I do, I always hope that I will plop down in the backseat, only to find myself escorted by a woman-any woman! Of course, this has yet to happen after three years of living in the city.
I accidentally sat down in a seat that was meant for the handicapped only, still in the swirl of my surprise. I think I just wanted to have a good view of the young indie driver while her bus carted me along for the next 10 blocks.
So I guiltlessly observed her as we glided along down Columbia Rd. Watched her content lips stay in place, never to turn down, only to turn up a few degrees when she opened the door for a new passenger to hurry in. And that made my heart go out to her. Especially because of her slow, natural smile. Nothing she picked up from the DC bus driver’s job manual; nothing more than a pleasant disposition. And I swear I heard her hum.
And then, after remembering the DC bus drivers who would pull up to the curb, a mere inches from where I stood after having waited for 30 minutes, only to peel out and leave me standing there for another more, I realized. I thought of the two bus drivers I once saw side by side at a red light on Massachusetts Ave, screaming obscenities at each other through their panel windows. I thought of the suited man who boarded my bus one morning and told the bus driver to f*ck off, and that he was “coming back for him” as made his stormy exit.
Finally, I let the inevitable and unfortunate thought be born: This poor girl’s sweetness will be snatched away like candy from an open palm.
Good luck, Miss Indie.
