I recently was ordered not to drive. With extreme vertigo, my sitting at the wheel is more an act of terrrorism than transportation. My friends and coworkers already have put out so much support that I have chosen, as much as possible, not to bother them about rides to work. After all, I’ve ridden public transport in about 10 countries, this small-town bus service should pose no problem. Takes 20 minutes to drive from one end of town to the other.
Actually riding the bus is a different story. I checked the schedule, wrote down my transfer point and times … and waited. The first day, the transfer bus never came. I ended up walking over 3 miles to arrive at work 10 minutes late. The second day, I picked a different combination of buses that left me waiting at the transfer point for over an hour, then waved down my original bus when it passed again. He called the transfer driver who went off route to pick me up.
The bus schedule in our small city is a mystery novel.
In actuality, the driver goes to Stop A early for one regular, he waits 5 extra minutes at Stop B for another to get off work. They don’t slow or stop when they get ahead of schedule. It’s no wonder that the low income people of this town don’t take the transit bus.
When I contacted the city director of transit, his solution was to call the dispatch office when I go to a bus stop. They will make sure I eventually get picked up.
–and all I was thinking was how can I use this in my fiction.
Not just the physical bus never arriving, but the feeling of helplessness as I stood at the transfer point, the feeling of POWER gleaned from walking because, “Sir, I would rather walk and make myself late than pay you another dollar to do so.”