Ogden and Colfax. To the East.

Yes, I am once again writing about the 15. The bus. The Vomit Comet, as Wendy once called it. Today was quite a day to leave my iPod at home. The man with the generic Dallas jersey and faded blue hair speaking to his toothless friend about prison sentences, where to meet after work, prison sentences. They're smoking their cigarettes with a sense of urgency--the life of a bus rider is one of constant expectation. The bus will arrive, the bus will arrive, the bus will arrive.

I board the bus with my small pile of lunch from work. The box with the salad, the foil-wrapped wheat bread, the small Styrofoam ramequin filled with balsamic vinaigrette. They were all precariously balanced, and the dressing, predictably, nose-dove to the floor of the incredibly crowded rush hour bus. It bled. I awkwardly recovered it and held it for the rest of the ride. The puddle of brown spread and shifted with the ride.

I finally settled in, and noticed a brown skinned man with a Broncos bandanna covering the majority of his long black hair, sitting five or so passengers away from me. A five year old boy sat restlessly on the bench next to the man, fidgeting, playing with his plastic preying mantis. The boy's mother asked questions, and the man with the bandanna spoke. Difficult to tell if the mother and the man were friends, or bus acquaintances. I can't tell if it matters, for the purposes of this blog, that the two were already friends. The mother hugged the man when she deboarded.

Bandanna spoke about his ankle monitor. His sentence, his parole, his remaining time: 28 days. He said to the woman, "It doesn't matter where you're going, just matters where you are." He spoke about his impending move, his new apartment, his new place. He showed the boy his face mask and construction hat.

It doesn't matter where you're going, just matters where you are. I try to think a bit about the sentence. Cliche, of course, but pertinent in some way. My life is rushing lately. Bending and expanding and shifting. I'm rushing. How Buddhist it is! It matters where we are. It matters where I am. On this bus, sitting next to the only other white women. The one to my left has a City Books tote bag, and the one to my right is reading a food magazine.

Where I am: Denver, City Park Neighborhood, winter, age 24. Where I am: The strange interlude between childhood and adulthood. The interlude that lasts the longest minutes of your life. Minutes that take years and decades. I'm shifting, rushing, going.

The man with the ankle monitor is moving on--28 days he has left, and his new apartment is waiting for him. The young boy reminds his mother of his presence by throwing his small plastic bug across the aisle, and for a moment we are all on the bus. Together. It's where we are. Together.

Colfax Westward: Downing

It's almost eight at night when I board the 15. It's relatively empty. I find a seat next to a heavy white woman with a skater hoodie and an off-brand mp3 player.

The Ethiopian man sitting across the aisle has a hole the size of a matchbox in the top of his loafer, and a brand new black and shiny HP laptop on his lap. He's not looking at anyone, but carefully pressing in the keys as if unlocking a safe.

The man and woman in the seat behind me speak loudly. I've caught them in the middle of their conversation, and can't quite get the full of extent of their words. She says incredulously, "People say, 'So you're Spanish then, ey?' and I say, 'I speak Spanish. I also speak German. What languages do you speak?'" When she says "Spanish," the whole weight of the word rests on the 'a', and comes out with a distinct, deeply felt and sufficiently strong accent. 'Spawn-eesh.' I don't once turn around to see their faces.

I'm headed West, which means the bus just gets more and more crowded as we near downtown. The two behind me exit the bus, and are replaced by a mother and her two young daughters. One is five at the most, and the other looks to be three. The older sits by herself next to the window, watching things happen outside, and the younger is distracted by everything on the bus. She can't stand sitting still, wants to walk all over, and her mother becomes more and more irritated by her constant need to move around. She wants her young daughter to behave and shut-up and stay put. She wants her daughter to listen to her mother. Wants her daughter to do it because she said it should be so. She threatens with more spanking, and the daughter instantly becomes demure and quiet. The girl answers her mother that, No, she doesn't want another slap on her butt.

The mother says, "Did you see that man get off the bus and scream at it? He got off just now, and screamed 'Shut up!' at the bus. It was too loud for him on here because of people like you. He's crazy. That's why you be quiet on the bus. You don't want to upset a crazy person."

I decide not to turn around when she spanks the three year old again. Decide not to take over completely raising them. I decide to behave and shut-up and stay put. I decide not to upset a crazy person.

Bus Rising: The Boulder Express Part I

Even the bus feels expensive these days. Four fifty to ride to Boulder, and I think they recently raised the local fee to two dollars even. That's what it costs in New York City, too. A fourteen percent increase from last year.

The bus to Boulder is different than the local Denver buses. The boarding terminal at 16th Street and Market in Downtown Denver is underground, warm, contained, the seats on the buses are comfortable and large, and between four and six in the afternoons, you pay as you exit the bus. It's incredibly trusting. Inviting a hundred strangers to the vehicle, and assuming they'll all dig into their pockets for the four and a half dollars at the end of the road.

I often imagine not paying. Arriving in Boulder, positioning at the top of the rubber bus stairs, and leaping full force to the street. I imagine myself running down the sidewalk like some scrappy city kid. I remember that I actually love the public transport system, it's not trying to swindle me, and I have a duty to support it. Also, stealing is wrong.

Truth be told, I'm a total wimp and would never attempt anything so bold and publicly confrontational.

But the thought is there. This bus is here for me, a vessel for my own personal transport. I take pride in the Boulder bus, and much comfort. This great metal whale trusts me to put in my four fifty, and against my better financial judgment, I will not let it down.