In Search of the Number 8 Bus

It was a day when it all piled up, a day when the chikungunya decided to move back in to the left hip, which was completely OK as long as I could lie in bed on my right side. There, there was absolutely no problem! But walking, even so far as to the bathroom? Not so good.

Nor did it help that I had broken part of a molar, and the tooth, feeling aggrieved perhaps, decided to join the left hip in a contest to see which could make me more miserable. So that left me directing traffic to the two extra-strength Tylenol: “hip,” I told one, “jaw” I told the other. Did they listen? Of course not….

I have, in fact, an excellent dentist—true, on an island where personalities tend to be plus sizes, his is a petite, but who cares? The only problem was that he was a bus ride away—but that was no problem, because I had taken that bus for 13 years. The ride would take 20 minutes. The wait could take an hour, so I left with an hour and 45 minutes to spare.

“They don’t have buses to transport people, they have buses to say they have buses, and to get more money to buy more buses,” Jorge had once sputtered to me, after he had arrived late to work, despite getting to the bus stop well in advance of his usual time. Oh, and Jorge lives on the most reliable bus line.

Well, buses are a big issue, right now, since Puerto Rico is in the middle of what has kicked off its shoes, settled onto the sofa, turned on the TV, hogged the remote, and declared that it will never leave. Nor is anybody bothering to use the last name—financial o económica—so familiar are we that it’s just la crisis.

And now la crisis—acting much like the chikungunya in its capricious way of attacking a different joint each day—is attacking the AMA, which would be the Metropolitan Bus Authority. And the AMA is part of the Highway and Transportation Department, and that agency? Seriously broke, says the governor, but fortunately, he has the solution! All it takes is to raise the petroleum tax from $9.25 per barrel to $15.50. See? No problem!

Sadly, the rest of the legislature—that pesky body of tree, not forest, see-ers—are having trouble imaging how they are going to walk through the town plazas and explain that to the crusty old men who gather there. Explain what? Well, the price of gasoline has just declined from record highs of four dollars a gallon, and now the governor wants to increase—functionally—the price by 16 cents a gallon? Oh, and these legislators? They’re from his party, not the opposition.

So the governor has been dishing up plates of cookies and good Puerto Rican coffee up the hill at the governors mansion, and how has that been going? Not so well, since El Nuevo Día has just announced electronically, Poca Asistencia de Legisladores a Reunión con el Gobernador. OK—how “poca” was the attendance (“asistencia")? Well, only six of the 18 senators bothered to show up, and only 11 of the 28 representatives. Oh, and that was two hours after the meeting started.

So how are things looking for the governor? No good, but not as bad as things are looking for the rest of us. Because the governor travels quite well, as I can tell you, having seen him come and go from the mansion. It starts with the cop in front of the wrought iron gate telling me to halt on my walk; it continues with my protest, “why should I stop if the gate isn’t even open.” The answer to this is “security,” and I point out: if I wanted to shoot the governor, I wouldn’t be passing his gate, only to be halfway down the block by the time the chauffeur drives through….

The governor, you see, requires three vehicles at least: a cop car in front, a cop car in back, and the tinted-window SUV in between. Oh, and did I mention the cops on motorcycles that are roaring behind the motorcade?

So is it likely that the governor is going to have a hard time getting to work, if the draconian measure that he proposes is taken? Because unless the governor gets his way, he’s taking his buses and locking them up, so there! No bus service, no ferry service to our two little islands of Culebra and Vieques, oh, and the Tren Urbano—the light rail service that transports 36,000 people on weekday? Well, the governor is closing that, too!

OK—all of this is what you can know, merely by reading—in air-conditioned comfort—the newspaper. But the reality? Get set, because that means a trip down to Covadonga, the bus terminal in the old city. And several interesting things will happen: first, the breeze that has been cooling you on your march to the terminal will abruptly quit, and you will instantly start sweating. Next, the noise level in the terminal will deafen you, since all of the buses are there, and all of them are running.

“Ah,” you say, “but there are buses!”

Very true, and there are drivers, as well. But what are they doing?

Drinking coffee and chatting. Oh, that’s about half of them; the other half? Sitting in their air-conditioned buses, watching us sweat. Is there a schedule? Of course not, so logically you should ask the driver when the bus is likely to move.

This will prompt a flurry of indignation, since it will be clear to the driver that you are implying that he is not doing his job, and since that will be taken as that most dreaded of Puerto Rican slurs—una falta de respeto­ or lack of respect—the driver will be obliged to denounce you and all riders like you, catalogue all the behaviors he has to deal with, classify you as the worst perpetrator of all of them, and then stalk away. Nor is that feeling you have that the bus has just been delayed at least half an hour unjustified. Because the driver will be talking loudly with his cohorts, gesticulating wildly, and throwing eye daggers your way. So everybody’s morning will be fucked.

Rather, you try not to make eye contact with the putative drivers, as they drink their coffee with their mates. And then, at last, at last—a driver gets into the bus! Can it be?

Of course not—remember that air conditioning? So you are sweltering, and the driver? Putting on his sweater!

At last, curious if his vehicle can still move, after so many centuries of inactivity, the driver starts the bus. He drives 20 feet to where you are standing, since that’s the rule: the buses park one place, you wait another. Now what happens?

Well, everybody—every last person—is going to have to ask the bus driver: is this the number 8 bus? Granted, it does have a sign to that effect, it also is in the lane reserved for the number 8 bus, and you have seen the bus driver everyday for the last six years—but still, why take chances? And just because he told the guy in front of you that it was the number 8, well—best to make sure.

Then comes the little problem—where’s my coin purse? Oh, and those pennies that you keep accumulating? Perfect place to ditch them, so it’s a long count—and why is that tall gringo behind you twitching so? Let’s see, 21, 22, 23—oh dear, I’m two short. So an appeal is made—and sure enough, the woman at the very end of the line has two pennies she can spare. Easy enough to go down there, kiss the lady, give her God’s blessing, and return triumphant with the change!

That, of course, is presuming that you pay with coins, since two years ago, the bus system integrated with the train system—and both now use the little train / bus card that you can “top up,” as the British say. The problem? Well, two years ago the system worked just fine. Now? Half of the meters that read the card—and deduct the electronic 75 cents—are broken! So that means that half of the time, half of the bus gets a free ride! This, in fact, was what puzzled the head of the bus authority, when he tried to figure out why revenue was increasing on the train, and decreasing on the buses.

It may be a free ride, but is it stress-free? Very likely not, since the bus will likely be crowded with schoolchildren, who talent base does not include murmuring. Of it could be two guys—best of friends—who chose to sit at opposite ends of the bus and yell amiably at each other. And then there are all the little old ladies who have traveled on the same bus with all the other little old ladies, so that means that when one of them gets off the bus? Well, it’s fifteen farewells—rather in the way families said farewell to young sons immigrating to the new world. Sensible, really, since we all know—little old ladies don’t last forever! Would you want to die, not having said farewell to doña María?

So now it’s time to get off the bus, but that’s a problem, because the driver—completely oblivious to social niceties—has closed the doors and moved from the curb at such a rate that the little old lady goes flying! Or would if there were fly space, but there’s not, since all of the adults are standing crammed next to each and watching the schoolchildren sitting in all the seats! Makes sense, since the school is the first stop, and we all know how tiring mental activity can be!

So the little old lady is unharmed, having bumped slightly man behind her, but no matter, because instantly the bus will erupt! The driver will be scolded, the little old lady will be quizzed—is she harmed, and no, though she does give her entire medical history, including childhood diseases—and the journey delayed. At last, she will move to the exit, which is in fact the entrance, since no one, NO ONE, would exit from the back of a bus? Why? When you can see the door right in front of you?

So the little old lady is exiting just as another lady is entering—not a good mix, since the little old lady is 78 pounds and the other lady could tackle a Green Bay Packer.

Now do you see why I left an hour and forty-five minutes to go see my dentist? Ahh, and I was needing that Novocain more than any junkie could want his heroin. So, down to the terminal, where….

…there was no bus.

Nor would there be a bus for the next 45 minutes, at which time, I boarded another bus to take an alternative, and still more convoluted way to the dentist. This involved transferring to a bus that almost never comes. How rare is it? Well, people have been known to take it, when they see, even if they have no particular need or desire to go where the bus goes. After all, you can boast that you took it to all of your fellow bus-riders!

And that was the bus that pulled up at the bus stop just as the bus I was riding on came up behind it. So that meant that I would again have reason to thank those long legs my parents had given me, since it would be another mad, panicked dash running from one bus to another. A dash involving screaming espere and pounding on the side of the bus and hoping against hope that someone would be in a wheelchair at the bus stop, since that would delay the process by at least fifteen minutes. So all of my blood had shifted to my skeletal muscles, and I was set for the dash—was gonna win it, too—when what did the bus driver do? He waited, in the middle of the intersection, 25 feet behind the desired bus, and refused to move or especially open the door, as I explained to him in three languages (bits of High School French drift through the mists of time under duress) that I wanted that bus. Once, the bus had zoomed off and become a dot in the landscape, a mere memory in the minds of men, only then, I tell you, did the bus pull up to the stop.

Now it wasn’t my hip, it wasn’t my hip, it was my sanity. Or rather, it wasn’t my sanity, since that had fled, and I was hot and sweating and late for my appointment and going down to the other terminal, where I saw that there was absolutely no bus. There wasn’t even anybody waiting. And somehow, I could bear it no more, since I did see three or four taxis, all empty, but did they deign to be flagged? No way—none of that New York foolishness!

And now the governor wants to suspend the bus service? The only question is….

…will anyone notice?