Three One Eight

I am the second of three young people to board the bus. The girl in front of me, hands crammed with plastic bags, heading home after a busy day of shopping, takes note of the fullness of the bus and does what I will soon do as well. She looks up the aisle to see the seats vomiting out loud teenagers, excited children with freebie balloons, backpacks, strollers with crying babies and some token pensioners assuming prime position at the front, hands on bells, ready to alert the driver of their impending departure, approximately seven minutes from now.

Hesitating for a moment, she pivots from one leg to another while she considers taking a chance, peering her neck to the back of the bus to see if there’s a free place to accommodate her tired feet. After some rigid “Should I, shouldn’t I?” movements, she takes her place on the left side of the bus, hoping that people don’t step on her tired looking, but all too visible thong-wearing toes.

I follow in her footsteps, and greet the driver, who grunts something back at me in that old man-big bellied-tight shirted-whisky in one hand kind of way. Perhaps he wishes he was holding a whisky right now. I stand opposite the girl, looking in the other direction, hoping not only that my feet don’t get stood on, but also not to bother the bus driver’s view, who is clearly frustrated at I can only guess, the loud noises that are leaving the children’s mouths and echoing through the entire, frosty air – conditioned bus.

The young guy gets on after me and we zoom off and join up with the rest of the traffic that fills the roads on an unusually busy Monday afternoon. He stands next to me, thus forming a barrier of youth against all potential departees and arrivees. The girl has already pacified her ears with her musical liking pre-bus entry. The boy soon follows and I hear the hip-hop beats begin to tear off his eardrum one follicle at a time. I realize I too am earphoneless, when I find myself listening to pension lady number one, question pension lady number two about those magnetic underlays that you put under your sheets, and whether or not they really do ease the pain. Earphones in, strangers’ dialogue out, some awkward eye-contact avoiding tension between the three under 25ers at the front and someone’s smelly body odour for our nasal delight. Robotic and immune from communication, it’s just another day on the three one eight.