Ghost of Bi-State Past
my freshmen are diligently working on writing vignettes and i usually share one that i wrote several years ago in college. after reading this example over and over again, i finally decided to break down and like a good little teacher, revise, revise, revise. so here’s latest edition of “Bus Stop Blues”. enjoy.
Some of my strongest childhood memories are of riding the Bi-State bus. Others may remember a favorite bicycle or a stuffed animal, but I fondly recall my love/hate relationship with St. Louis’ public transportation system.
I attended a magnet high school in the Central West End and among the things the school did not have, the big yellow school bus topped the list. So every week I stood in line and begrudgingly bought my $1 bus pass for the North Kingshighway and Forest Park/Oakland buses.
Part of my daily bus ritual was a transfer at Kingshighway. The bus shelter—what qualified as one—was on a tiny island of concrete lodged between a highway off-ramp and rush hour traffic. One or two remaining brown plastic “windows” advertising various gang tags offered little in the way of refuge from the wind, and two twisted posts hinted at the one-time presence of an aluminum bench. Most notably was the aroma of urine and malt liquor, which never seemed to clear.
What forever imprinted me more than the sounds and smells of my Bi-State experience, were the people I had a chance to rub shoulders and legs with. One particular rider I was less inclined to rub anything with was a old homeless lady. From my spot on the bus I could see this lady three blocks away. It wasn’t hard for her to stick out when she wore only a housecoat and slippers in December. Once the bus doors sighed opened and she paused mumbling to herself, she would slowly hobble up the steps. Usually bypassing the payment portion of her bus ride, she would rock and sway with the bus rhythm closer to her station which was within mumbling distance of the driver.
What made her most interesting, other than the mumbling, which is novice by crazy standards, was her appearance. Any month of the year she would be sporting the latest in house coat fashion. She wore a threadbare yellow housecoat that had months of grime and stains worn in. The pockets were torn and the hem, non-existent. Her hair was the tangled, yellowed nap of combs forgotten. Her feet, red and blistered from the cold, were encased in dingy pink terry cloth slippers. Her thick, yellowed toenails grasped the slipper’s edges as if in defiance.
She stood, one soiled hand gripping the overhead bar, the other gripping a coffee can and half-lit cigarette. The coffee can, her constant companion, held assorted trash, ashes, and spittle from the phlegm she hocked up during her short ride. The stench wafting from the can and her armpit waving recklessly in the air made me breathless.
Sensing her stop, her thin veiny arms would reach out towards the driver, and with as much force as her withered frame could muster, she would yell in a mucus-filled gurgle, “At the corner!”