Just Another Day on the 1X

If you follow my Twitter feed religiously – as I’m sure you do – you know that I use the 1X to get from Pacific Grove to, well, the rest of the world. It’s a smallish bus, not like the big city buses that operate between big cities like Monterey and Salinas and Watsonville. The 1X is a mobile community. Everyone knows each other, and the chatter and gossip (the good kind) flow like the white-tipped waves that break just outside the bus’s windows.

People come from all over the world to visit Pacific Grove, or at least stumble in by accident from Monterey or Carmel. And why not? PG, as we Pagrovians call it, has a fabulous, rocky coast, the oldest continuously operating lighthouse on the West Coast, and a plethora of cute little Victorian houses (see some of them on my other blog, www.pauljimerson.blogspot.com). It’s a great little town. But enough boostering.

Today on the 1X was day not unlike any other on our little bus. It was crowded this morning; mostly regulars. S, a sweet, middle-aged woman, and I began to chat. She sometimes can be a little difficult to follow. She mentioned John Lennon, and we were off, talking about Yoko Ono (who I follow on Twitter, BTW, @yokoono). We often talk about books. I showed her my recent photos (watch for them on Twitter and on my blogs).

D, who owns a store on “The Row” (Cannery Row), was on board; a little quiet today. He’s a tall, dignified, neatly dressed fellow. We often commiserate about troublemakers on the bus. We get off at the same stop in the afternoon.

The two “flowers” were on board; one is a waitress, the other a former jazz singer. There’s a kindly older woman with a German accent. The CB radio was way too loud; very jarring. The din precluded shouting at the driver, although people were doing just that, yelling at him to have him radio ahead to hold a couple of buses for them at the bus plaza in Monterey; this driver is always running late, unlike M, who was always on time. We all miss her.

I talked to a new bus friend about addictions, from Demerol to heroin. After a few people vacated the bus, S and I resumed our conversation. We talked about John Cage, Merce Cunningham, Jasper Johns. I told her about seeing Merce (I call him Merce) in Manhattan, Berlin and Beacon, New York; made me feel very sophisticated. I secretly hoped other passengers would overhear.

Just another day on the bus.

But, enough about the 1X; I’ve got more important things to do. I have to get back to Twitter.

1X Stories: The Old Man & the Bus

Had a nice chat with a woman at the bus stop this morning. She’s staying with a friend nearby, apparently looking for work. I didn’t have any change, so I ended up paying three bucks for the bus. I was coughing a bit, recuperating from a cold. “It’s not contagious,” I said apologetically, to no one in particular. One woman offered, “It never goes away.” “Don’t say that,” I said.

M, a thin, frail-looking older man, walks slowly, dressed in his usual khaki winter coat & dirty beige ball cap. He gets on the bus the stop after mine, and usually gets off in the center of PG, often met by R, a sweet middle-aged woman who helps him out. M has a dry wit, and proffers jokes, in his quiet, raspy voice. If someone is sitting in the front seat, they will move toward the back to let him have “his” seat.

“Take your time, sweetheart,” one of the women says.

T, a regular, pulls up with his bicycle, dressed for winter in his dark blue jacket and ball cap (it’s shirt sleeve weather today), secures his bike on the rack on the front of the small bus, and sits behind me. For a long time, I thought of T as just another odd character, one of those people who generally get ignored. A few months ago, I had a long conversation with him, during which I learned that he had been an actor in New York, and had had some kind of accident, which left him with aphasia. We don’t talk much, but always acknowledge each other. T often talks sweetly to his wife on the phone, in muted tones.

The jovial woman next to M shares some chocolate with him, gives him a little stuffed animal.

We pass the lush green links, deer grazing.

I joked with M, who has some tape on his ear, that he looked like Evander Holyfield. He didn’t hear me. I don’t think anyone got it.

We cruise by the bay, today a silvery blue, calmer than it has been lately, wearing skeins of white foam from the rough surf. A couple of people comment on what a beautiful day it is. It’s a spectacular day.

The bus stops at the Senior Center, near Lovers Point. One of the women disembarks, intoning to M, “Stay sweet for me, my Corazon.” I asked the Mexican driver what “Corazon” means; he says, “heart,” but in this context, “sweetheart.”

I seat myself closer to M, and say, “I thought Mike Tyson had tried to bite off your ear.” “He’d do a good job.”

De-boarding in town, M jokes, as usual, “Don’t push me,” and, predictably, people laugh. Rose is there to greet him.