Kaetlin Perna
December 8, 2006

I have the most normal conversation everyday with a woman I barely know. She lives a block away from me, she's a singer, from Manhattan, has a cat and a boyfriend that's never in town. We sit outside a closed Starry Nights Café waiting for the always early 6:45 morning bus downtown that I take to my morning babysitting job. Monday through Friday, my mornings are this type of normal; its commuting bus life.

Marshelle, my friend at the bus stop, and I get on, sometimes with another man who lives across the street, sometimes not. I step onto the bus, wait for Marshelle to rummage through her purse to find her day pass; I pay my 1.25 bus fare and survey the usually unoccupied seats. The regular men greet me, "How are you doing this morning, young lady?" "Good," I say. "Getting ready for winter already" another one says. I look down to my personage; winter jacket, knit hat, knit scarf and gloves, my Uggs and the always needed black, 30 gigabyte iPod. "Yes, gearing up for the winter - just need to kill a few more seals and I'm all set." I say, put on my earpieces and blast George Harrison's "I've Got My Mind Set On you"

I don't mind the people, not at all. Listening to their conversation, on the other hand, I prefer not doing. I just woke up, maybe 45 minutes ago, the last thing I really want to do is engage into other people lives. So I listen to music and watch. I watch them talk, I watch them laugh, I watch as they leave the bus and I watch as new people step onto the bus. There is this woman who gets off 4 stops before I do. A few days ago, she apologized to me because she felt like she could not get my attention to say "Good Morning" the day previous. I told her, "Screw off and leave me alone, crazy woman!" (I'm lying). I told her, "I'm sorry, I'm usually in my own world half awake. Good morning!" She replied, "Good morning, twice!" She gets off on Plymouth and a few stops later, I'm off at my stop in Corn Hill.

On the return, there are a few different varieties of patrons. Back on Plymouth, a woman who I like to refer to as the "disabled woman so ornery she won't move for people in actual wheelchairs and disrupts able body patrons with her walker WITH BRAKES that she can carry ONTO the bus and walk to her seat quite easily." She always looks likes she's taken a few too many Quaaludes and absolutely has to sit in the very first seat behind the driver. At Main and St. Paul, the fly girl whose outfit is always color coordinated steps on. She talks to the woman who is trying to solve the "word" puzzle - not a crossword puzzle, a "word" one. A few stops down on Gibbs is the "woman with hair," who has Aquanet hair, drawn on eyebrows, and I was told, is a partner in a law firm, works out at the Y in the morning, and lives somewhere on Prince St. She actually does have trouble getting on the bus in her older age, but never sneers at people for a seat. She, the fly girl and I, all get off at the same stop.

Its bus culture and it's the most normal part of my day. In, out, up, down, sit, stand, walk, sneer, chat, and wave. We don't know each other; maybe that's the mystery in it all. But it's our daily ritual and our very own small community when all the world is becoming smaller and smaller each day. I barely talk to my next door neighbors, but I sort of talk to the people I commute with. Let's face it, it's that normality and connection in life that helps us survive.