Riding the Phantom by Daniel Robinson

I feared the ‘Phantom’ was never going to appear. Waiting patiently for over thirty minutes in the bone-chilling cold with still no sign of the absent bus, I checked my phone’s clock for the umpteenth time and deliberated whether to hop on the subway, grab a cab, or walk the 20-odd blocks to my work. No—I’ve waited this long; the bus would come—it had to. Just as the sun rises on the East River and sets on the Hudson, the M11 would surely arrive.

Many Manhattan commuters believed that the ‘Phantom’—as this never-on-schedule bus was so christened—didn’t actually exist. It was nothing more than a fabricated legend, an urban myth, a mass-transit mystery. A few steady stalwarts, through sepia-toned memories, recall having once glimpsed the elusive beast lumbering up Tenth Avenue, Harlem bound. At this glacial moment, I was leaning with the skeptics, my small faith in public transportation rapidly dwindling.

As boredom ensued, I discretely observed the bundled congregation gathered beside me in the comfortless bus shelter. Today’s motley crew consisted of a young, perennially pregnant Latina mother clutching a double stroller containing a pair of twin toddlers, their tiny noses streaming like illegally-opened hydrants; several elderly women wearing identical babushkas and black mourning coats, babbling softly in possibly Greek, smelling of tea rose and mothballs; a gaunt actor-singer-dancer-mime wearing a too-lightweight-for-this-weather Les Miz show jacket and a vacant expression; two dreadlocked crimson-faced teens resembling an adolescent Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love, giggling and obviously stoned at the early morning hour of eight-forty-eight; and lastly, that most reviled of all bus travelers—the wheelchair-bound homeless person—today’s subject being a morbidly obese black gentleman wearing a battered Nike parka and a pair of sweatpants soiled with the remnants of several recent meals. Perched upon his motorized Jazzy, he sat deeply engrossed in a dog-eared Michael Jackson paperback bio while listening on an old Walkman to what I could clearly overhear was ‘the gloved one’s’ greatest hits. Fellini and John Waters combined could not have assembled a better cast. I eyed them all with only minimal contempt.

The temperature read a frigid twenty degrees, or so the gauge on the nearby gas station sign stated. With a brisk ten-miles-an-hour wind blowing, the chill factor was surely sub-zero. Screw this! I’ll splurge and pay the damn ten bucks for a taxi. I stepped off the curb and raised my cashmere-lined gloved hand. Several yellow cabs quickly spied me and sped towards my direction. But then—Wait! What’s that?—squinting from my new vantage point, far down the road, hazy in the distance—Do my watery eyes deceive me?—there, on the horizon, a tiny, square-shaped object slowly ambling in this direction. Could it be true? Yes, it could! It was! The M11!!! This was no mirage and as real as real can be. The ‘Phantom’ had appeared at last!

I quickly stepped back, ignoring a halted cab. Seeing my indifference, the turbaned driver angrily shot the finger, honked twice, and drove off. I didn’t care, for soon I would be safely ensconced within the confines of the ‘Phantom’s’ warm womb. As the bus slowly neared, we assembled en masse like Emperor penguins, hoping to be the first to escape the numbing air. It lurched to the curb and then as if by some miraculous intervention, stopped directly in front of me. Yes, me! Not the fertile Madre/Mama! Not Les Miz, the frail Broadway gypsy! Not Kurt and Courtney, the gangly potheads! No—it halted in front of me. I would have the privilege of entering first—the sudden realization causing a broad smile to break through my splitting chapped lips. But alas, my good fortune proved short-lived, for through the bus door’s frosted glass, I sadly watched as the driver stood and moved to raise up the handicapped seats for an awaiting passenger. Mr. Jazzy, the homeless invalid, would instead have the honor of entering first, while we, the nearly frostbitten horde, would just have to wait our turn. Damn these healthy toned legs!

Only after the entrance ramp had been extended and the ‘wheeled one’ securely strapped down would the able-bodied be permitted to board. Somehow, while intently watching the action, the old Babushka sisters had managed to nudge their way directly in front of me. Being well-mannered, I allowed them their transgression, rationalizing that their time left among the living was limited. Back in his seat, the driver withdrew the ramp and gave the signal to enter. Like fleeing refugees desperate to catch the last helicopter out of a war-ravaged Saigon, we madly scrambled on. Spotting an empty space near the back, I raced to claim it as mine and sat in grateful comfort, happy to thaw out and finally be heading to my job. With moderate traffic and no foreseeable terrorist attacks, I should arrive only a few minutes late, and hopefully, the circulation in my toes would someday return.

Settling in, I found myself nestled between two peculiar middle-aged men. The toothless man on one side of me sat giggling softly while intently immersed in playing Pong on his gaming device. The man on my other side, wearing thick-lensed glasses and green furry earmuffs, seemed to have a continuous preoccupation with scratching, rubbing, and adjusting his ample crotch. Scanning further, I came to the realization that everyone within a six-foot radius appeared to be a lifelong resident of Looneyville (the sister city of Crazytown). The surrounding dozen-or-so mentally challenged men wore a variety of scarves, mittens, and hats, all in odd hues and clashing patterns as if dressed haphazardly by some color-blind stylist. Pinned to each of their winter coats were small name cards with the same phone number written in black Sharpie. CARL to my right, KELVIN to my left, and Daniel, myself, crammed in the middle. The group seemed to be on some kind of an outing, and each held paper bag lunches upon their laps. But who was their fearless leader? I could only assume that the septum-pierced, mutton-chopped hipster sitting amongst them was their chaperone, being sans a name tag.

After all of the passengers had finally finished boarding, held up for a time by Courtney Love having to beg for exact change and Les Miz’s Metrocard being bent, we at last set off and started to maneuver into traffic. Suddenly, breaking the relative calm, I heard a distant, distressed voice screaming frantically from somewhere outside. Turning to locate the source of the angst, I strained to view an older, mink-wearing woman dashing across the street behind us, dodging cars and pedestrians alike in a desperate attempt to catch our bus. Reaching the back door, just as we started to accelerate, I caught a glance of her thickly rouged face, twisted into a grimace, banging on the glass as we moved away and bellowing with all her might: “STOP THE BUS!!! STO-O-O-OP!!! YOU GOD-DAMN MOTHERFUCKER!!! YOU NO GOOD BASTARD COCK-SUCKER!!! STOP THIS BUS!!!! YOU SON-OF-A-FUCKING-BI-I-i-i-i-ich……!!!!!

As her obscene cries faded into the distance, shocked, I glanced around at my neighbors. Did you just see and hear what I just saw and heard? Unsurprisingly, not one of the Kooky Dozen seemed even remotely fazed. I put the horrible image of the woman’s pained expression and her needless use of such foul profanity out of my mind, charitably hoping that her high-heeled foot had not found its way beneath one of the vehicle’s merciless tires.

After venturing a number of blocks, we made the first of several pit stops to pick up new riders. Gazing out the window, once again, to my dismay, there on the sidewalk, lounging upon a manual wheelchair, sat a one-legged woman wearing upon her head a child’s Burger King cardboard crown. The driver again rose and strode to shoo away passengers from their front locations and lifted up the seats to accommodate the Burger Queen. Offering up my coveted spot to the banished Madres/Mama and clan, I stood and watched as the royalty was loaded on and battened down, her mobile throne adorned with various plastic bags tied akimbo. In the near future, I really should consider investing in a wheelchair, I mused.

“Where to?” the driver, handsome and resembling a young Denzel Washington, inquired.

“Eighty-sixth and Broadway, pumpkin.” her Highness regally replied.

Young Denzel returned to his post to welcome some new human icicles: an exotic-looking Asian woman with hands encased in a pink, fluffy muff; a lanky, briefcase-wielding businessman looking far too young to appear so self-important; a trio of inner-city middle-school students; and to my complete surprise, Miss Potty Mouth, the screaming woman who had just missed the bus! Obviously, she’d galloped to the next stop and now stood by the driver, breathing heavily and clearly quite pissed off.

“Why didn’t you…stop and wait…for me?” she gasped and demanded.

“Excuse me?”

“You drove off…and left me there…I know you heard me!”

“Ma’am, once we leave the curb, we’re not permitted to stop for anyone. Them’s the rules.”

Miss Potty Mouth would have none of it, standing steadfast and fuming for a few moments while still catching her breath. She then started fumbling through her knock-off designer purse for a pen and paper.

“I’m reporting you to the Transit Authority. What is your name?”

“Al Sharpton.”

“I suppose you think you’re funny, driver. I don’t appreciate that attitude!”

“Just pay and have a seat, ma’am.”

“Don’t you patronize me!”

“I said, pay and sit!” he repeated more emphatically.

“Don’t you dare speak to me in that tone of voice, young man!”

“You’re wasting your time, ma’am!”

“Yeah, lady, you’re wasting our time, too!” Les Miz chimed in from his designated-for-the-elderly-and-handicapped location.

“Hey, come on! Let’s get going! Sit down, will ya!” Hipster Field Trip Leader seconded from the far back reaches.

“Oh, hush up!” she pooh-poohed. “I will not sit down! Not until I’ve some justice here!”

“Ma’am, I can’t move on until you pay your fare and sit down.” Young Denzel patiently declared.

“I’m not moving until I get your name and I.D. number!” Miss Potty Mouth proclaimed.

Several other voices loudly rang out.

“Leave the driver alone!”

“Dude’s just doing his job!”

And my favorite.

“Sit ‘yo boney ass down, bitch!”

As I watched the arguing pair continue their heated conversation from my stance in the center aisle, two matronly women below me waved and called out to Miss Potty Mouth.

“Ruth! When you’re done, we’re over here!” one beckoned.

“Do you know that woman?” I asked politely.

“She’s a good friend of ours.” the other one explained. “We’re off to Tavern-on-the-Green. They have a delicious morning special, then we go play Mahjong. A group of us lady friends meet every Thursday.”

“Well, that lady friend of yours sure ain’t no lady. By any chance, did you hear those vulgar obscenities she was screaming at us back there?”

“What? Oh, no…no…you must be mistaken. That doesn’t sound like our little Ruthie.” one chuckled.

“Oh, yes…yes. It was your little Ruthie alright. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never heard such filth and vitriol spew from a person’s mouth so early in the morning. In actuality, I had heard and even uttered words far filthier and much earlier, but I saw no need to divulge that information.

Then, from out of nowhere, a familiar-sounding voice pealed out, loud and firm, stating, “Don’t you dare let that awful woman on this bus!” Who said that? My thoughts exactly. Wait a second.…that was me!… I was the one who had spoken up! Me! Then, as if possessed by the spirit of some repressed suffragette, I continued on with my rant.

“Throw her off! Throw her off! Throw her off!” I proclaimed with unexpected zeal. To my surprise, the Cobains, Hipster Field Trip Leader, CARL and KELVIN, Mr. Jazzy, and the school kids quickly all joined the chorus. “Throw her off! Throw her off! Throw her off!” Even the Babushka sisters threw in a couple of “Tro ‘er oft’s!” until the entire bus echoed the chant. It became our mantra, our protest, our Attica moment.

“Quiet down!” Young Denzel stood up, glaring at the angry mob. “Everyone, shut the hell up! Now!”

We all fell silent and flaccid.

“Eighty-sixth and Broadway, pumpkin.” the Burger Queen blurted to no one in particular.

“One last time, ma’am. Pay your fare and take a seat…or get off. I can’t have you causing a riot.”

Defeatedly contemplating her only options, Miss Potty Mouth slowly dipped her card into the slot with a wrinkled reptilian hand and slunk past the evil eye-casting passengers towards her companions. Arriving in front of me, we stared each other down until one of her pals relinquished her seat.

“Am I in New York City or the deep South?” she quietly confided to her friends as she sat. “I’m surprised they didn’t tar and feather me.”

Don’t even dare jest. I thought.

The remainder of the journey proved thankfully uneventful. A single seat opened up, and I sat appreciatively alone. Arriving near a hospital, Mr. Jazzy descended back to terra firma, and off he sped at a clipped five miles per hour. Les Miz also disembarked for what was hopefully a date with a doctor, as did the expectant Madre/Mama with her now-dreaming bambinos in tow. The Babushka sisters exited across from a Greek Orthodox church where a long, black hearse was parked in front, waiting. Kurt and Courtney departed, laughing loudly and likely late for class at a city college. Miss Potty Mouth and her cronies departed at the stop closest to Central Park, heading off for a bargain brunch, surely offering up beetles, worms, and crow on the menu. The Kooky Dozen, all visibly excited and chattering to themselves in unison, departed just before my stop to head off in the direction of a large circus tent. I smiled and waved goodbye to each one as they exited, with most of them grinning back and returning my wave.

As my final destination drew near, I stood, anxious to depart the ‘Phantom’ at last. Pressing the yellow strip to open the back door, I stepped down, then stopped to linger on the cold corner for a time and watched as the much-maligned bus, still half-full with its menagerie of downtrodden, flamboyant, and resilient denizens, gradually faded from view. Turning and trudging off to work, questions clouded my mind to dog me for the rest of the day: Why do we put up with such terrible conditions just for the opportunity to live here? What do we sacrifice? What do we gain? And why oh why do I love this ugly, unpredictable, and utterly mad city so damn much?