A bored, lifeless mob with vacant, expressionless faces. That’s what rides the orange line in the wee hours of the morning.
All shapes, races and sizes meander about the platform on what I assume will be another workday spent living the American dream. As the bus finally swings around the corner is had been taunting us from, a sudden energy surges through the crowd. They are bright and alert, boarding like eager puppies as the creaky, city-funded doors grant them passage on their journey.
I wheel my bike to the front, deftly pulling down the rack and lifting my bike in one fluid movement. “Yeah, I’ve done this before” I smile and think to no one.
Just as I’m finishing securing my bike, the old bat croaks over the loudspeaker that “the doors are closing,” as though I were some wistful parent sending my beloved tot off to school, rather than a fare-paying patron, fully intending to ride this hunk of metal myself.
I wave my arm, reminding her of my existence, and she impatiently rolls her eyes and gives me a half-hearted wave onto the bus. I know lady, you have really important places to go.