I am late for my bus. About eight months late.
I'm also a little late with this blog. But I promised myself I wouldn't write about this experience until I accomplished two successful trips without incident. It's taken longer than one might imagine.
Sometime toward the close of last year I conceived the idea of riding the city bus to work. The reasons vary: I'm a little worried about the rain forests; it's cheaper; and there's always that whole simplicity thing. (Would Jesus own a car if the Father had set the incarnation in twenty-first century America? The one time he rode anywhere he used Hertz Rent-A-Burro.)
But mostly it's easier to give the reasons I didn't take the bus - not for a long time, at any rate. There's convenience, for one. I live three-quarters of a mile or so from the stop I need. But that's sort of a ruse. I own a serviceable bicycle, and every City of Corpus Christi bus mounts a bike rack. I couldn't hide behind scheduling. These reliable diesel conestogas set off at half-hour intervals all day long. Arrival at the South Texas School of Christian Studies, where I teach, does not require a transfer; they set me down on the campus of Texas A&M University of Corpus Christi, hardly a PGA par-five tee-shot from my office.
No, the real reason was the haunting fear of looking foolish, of not knowing what I was doing, and note knowing it in front of an audience. "Now I know,"says the Green Lady of Venus to Elwin Ransom in C. S. Lewis' Perelandra, "that people in your world do not like to be laughed at." Well, at any rate I don't care for it. And, like Lewis' hero, I'm an academic. I saw riding the bus as one more way to demonstrate the ineptitude of someone with a terminal degree when he attempts to do what folks who didn't finish high school do on a daily basis without a second thought.
So I hesitated - straight through the start of the spring term, telling myself that I'd figure it out during Spring Break. But I let the second target go by as well, temporizing that when summer came I'd have more chances to experiment without running the risk of getting to work late. So, of course, I found myself hull-down on August with another academic year ready to roll by. So it was that one morning, a fortnight or so before classes began, I asked Becky to deposit me at the little shelter at the corner of Texan Trail and Alameda, there to await my fate. I'd like to share a few lessons I've learned so far.
First of all, there is the ability to laugh at oneself. Here is a brief chronicle of my misadventures on that first day:
- Arrived late: Bus #1.
- Got on the next bus that happened along, only to discover that it was the #19, not the #5, and was going the opposite direction I desired. The kindly driver deposited me at the nearest stop and I hiked double-time back to the original station: Bus #2.
- About a hundred feet from my stop, I looked up to see the vehicle I wanted roll majestically into traffic: Bus #3.
- Waited a half-hour for the next one, carefully read the scrolling sign above its front windshield, like the mark of the beast, saw it was indeed the #5, climbed on board, payed the seventy-five cent fare, and sat down: Bus #4.
Let me just say that when I hove up at work, nearly an hour behind my usual time, my coworkers displayed none of the civility of the Green Lady of Perelandra.
Second, there is the humility of needing help. Like Blanche DuBois in Tennessee Williams' Streetcar Named Desire, I quickly found myself depending on the kindness of strangers. When I finally thumped down on board the correct bus that first day, I found myself seated by a friend, a former pupil, in fact, on his way home from working the night shift at a temp job he's taken until going abroad on mission work. As we chatted, I suddenly realized I had left out a key calculation in my new mode of transport. "John," I half-whispered (I don't know why the soto-voce; no one appeared interested), "how do you get them to stop when you need off?" My student replied with the hesitant and embarrassed tone of one who wants to answer a stupid question without making the questioner feel stupid. "Uh, you pull this little cord here."
Then there was the next day when, as originally planned, I biked to the stop. It was indeed true that each bus sported a bike rack, but I had no idea how the device worked. The driver unshipped herself and demonstrated - it involves pulling a handle to lower the device, then raising a bar to secure the bike's front wheel. She waved aside my apologies in the kindest possible way.
Best of all was the time I boarded for the homeward voyage only to find the driver absent. (My school sits at the end of the route and the drivers regularly disembark there, perhaps for some sort of union-mandated bathroom break.) I slid my cash in the slot, watched it disappear, and heard a strangled cry from the bowels of the device. When the charioteer returned and I confessed my dilemma, he gently explained that the driver turns off the meter upon leaving, and one should not use it until he returns. Meanwhile, it seems I'd jammed the device and it wouldn't accept fares, so everyone for the remainder of the route got a free ride. If you caught the #5 that afternoon, you're welcome.
Finally, there is the loss of control. If I take the bus, I don't decide when I leave and when I arrive. Well, I do, but within a window. For some thirty-eight years now I have had pretty much sovereign control over my departure and arrival times. On bus days (I ride about three times per week), I have to hit the target named by another. And this has its compensations: I can read, talk on the phone, stare at the beautiful scenery along Ocean Drive, and let someone else worry about minor irritations like steering and braking.
Most of all, though, has been a renewed sense, not just of gratitude, but of wonder. I too seldom stop to contemplate the goodness of God, who built a reliable world that operates on a consistent basis. We talk about natural "laws," but the medievals spoke of the "kindly inclining" of inanimate objects, an equally metaphorical but far more gracious turn of speech. Similarly, I could speak of the drivers and dispatchers of the Corpus Christi public transportation system as doing their jobs or following their orders. But I have come to prefer thinking of them as showing a kindly inclining to give me a lift, get me where I need to go, put me back on track when I stray, help me with my bike, and forgive me my blunders. "Route" and "routine" come from the same root, and I have learned a new appreciation for those who routinely run their routes in order to free me from worry. Sure, just as God's consistent physical universe means that sometimes hurricanes happen as well as spring showers, so keeping a consistent schedule means that sometimes the drivers leave me behind when I run late, but the alternative is to ask for chaos.
In short, I have learned to appreciate the miracle described by G. K. Chesterton in his novel The Man Who Was Thursday.
The rare, the strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, obvious thing is to miss it. We feel it is epical when man with one wild arrow strikes a distant bird. Is it not also epical when man with one wild engine strikes a distant station? Chaos is dull; because in chaos the train might indeed go anywhere, to Baker Street, or to Baghdad. But man is a magician, and his whole magic is in this, that he does say Victoria, and lo! It is Victoria.
And so I give thanks for those two consecutive days when I looked up and behold, the bus said "TAMU-CC," and lo! It was TAMU-CC.
No comments:
Post a Comment