Don't Like to Encourage Fibbing But . . .

A couple of weeks ago, after attending Coffee with a Cop, Beach Buddy, aka the Oceanside Trenchcoat Guy, dropped me off in front of my apartment complex. I was heading to the front gate when I noticed a twenty-something young man (YM) who seemed to be wandering around aimlessly. I didn’t recognize him as a neighborhood resident. On the other hand, he didn’t look homeless. He approached me as I was about to disappear into the courtyard.

YM: Do you have any spare change for the bus?

Me: Sorry, no. But you could try giving the bus driver a sob story. (Over the years, I’ve seen various scenarios work well hundreds of times.)

YM: I tried that.

Me: Try another bus driver.

Yes, I probably shouldn’t have offered suggestions, but I did. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t encourage anyone to fib to an NCTD driver. But it was oppressively warm that day. And I all too well remember waiting for buses in Tucson during July.

Not Funny, But I Laughed Anyway

Last week, when I went to the transit center to catch a bus to the mall, I saw a man who supposedly was in charge of his small daughter. Daughter looked about two years old, but she might have been younger. She wasn’t that steady on her feet. At first, she careened around, straying away from Dad and getting in the way of people who were rushing to catch other buses.

Our bus wasn’t scheduled to leave for 15 minutes. The bus door was open, and the bus driver was sitting in the driver’s seat, taking a break. Daughter soon discovered the open door.

Dad stood around grinning, presumably with pride, as the toddler awkwardly and repeatedly climbed into the bus, struggled to her feet, turned around, and jumped onto the sidewalk. She thought that was just great. What the bus driver thought is not known. I thought it was an accident waiting to happen.

Later, about halfway through their trip, Dad took an over-the-counter medicine bottle from a tote bag, opened the bottle, and knocked back a pill or two. Then he grabbed Daughter’s sippy cup and washed down the pill(s).

While he was busy doing that, Daughter retrieved the medicine bottle from the tote bag and proceeded to whack Dad in the head. And she wasn’t doing it gently. She hit him five or six times, but he didn’t try to stop her. I so wanted to say, “Well, we know who rules the roost in your house.”

But I didn’t. Instead, I started laughing. And then Dad started laughing while Daughter continued to whack him in the head. About a minute later Daughter stopped hitting Dad and noticed the open window. She drew back her little arm, aimed the bottle at the window, and made an attempt to pitch the bottle into the street.

Dad grabbed the bottle just in time.

The Sprinter: Back on Track

[This is the long-delayed "sequel" to an earlier post, Introducing the Sprinter, published on July 3, 2013.]

A year ago at this time, I was impatiently anticipating the return of commuter train service to North County. I missed the convenience of riding the Sprinter when I traveled between cities. I especially hated riding a much too overcrowded bus to Escondido at 6:30 a.m. every Wednesday.

Why was I anticipating the return of the Sprinter?

On March 8, 2013, North County Transit District (NCTD) shut down the trains due to a problem with the braking system. The shutdown caused serious transportation problems for thousands of people (including me), many of whom (but not including me) depend on the train to get to work or school every day.

Of course The-Powers-That-Be (TPTB) still had to move all those people.

In order to do that, TPTB leased luxury commercial coaches that ran about every fifteen minutes during peak periods. The plush buses really didn’t have much leg room, but the seats were comfortable. And passengers didn’t risk life and limb stumbling over baby carriages, walkers, and personal shopping carts on the way to their seats because those items were stored in a separate compartment under the passenger section.

About a month into the shutdown, TPTB phased out the use of the commercial coaches. For a short time, several rickety buses brought in from Los Angeles helped to move commuters. A fellow passenger claimed that the L.A. buses dated back to the sixties. I didn't doubt it. Every time the drivers hit the brakes, something fell off those buses.

And then the L.A. buses disappeared. After that, what seemed like a half-zillion passengers were stuffed into NCTD buses operating on the most popular regular routes and two newly created Sprinter Shuttle express bus routes. Riding on one of those shuttle buses was like being trapped in a traveling sardine can.

The system remained shut down for over two months. After the repairs were completed, several agencies had to inspect the braking system, the tracks, the signals, and who knows what else before the Sprinter could start hauling people again.

On May 17, 2013, I noticed that the yellow boarding platforms were down. They had been pulled up when the Sprinter shut down. I figured that was a good sign. And it was. The Sprinter was back on track the next day.

Snarky Me and the Bookmobile

I admit that I probably was not nice recently. This is an explanation, not an excuse.

 

A couple of weeks ago, I got up way too early after a night of too little sleep. At 5:55 a.m., I left to catch a bus to the train station. I rode the 6:30 Sprinter to Other City, where I boarded a local bus that dropped me off near a popular restaurant. As usual, I stopped for a coffee fix to perk up before going to my volunteer job.

 

The coffee fix did nothing for me. I dragged myself into the library and hoped the morning would fly by.

 

I started sorting beaucoup donated magazines and books in all sizes, shapes, and conditions. Forty-five minutes later, I decided that I needed to go upstairs for boxes and other supplies. I had one foot in the elevator when a man’s voice boomed, “Excuse me.”

 

I was the only one in the area, so I figured he was talking to me. I removed my foot from the elevator and swiveled my neck in the direction of the voice. “Where did you park your vehicle when you came in this morning?” he asked.

 

He explained that someone’s car either had blocked the bookmobile or had been parked behind the bookmobile. I didn’t catch exactly what the issue was. I think my mind got stuck on the word “bookmobile.”

 

I couldn’t recall ever seeing a bookmobile anywhere near the library. Actually, I couldn’t recall ever seeing a bookmobile anywhere since I got out of elementary school, way back in the Early Jurassic Period.

 

I hesitated for a couple of seconds, and then I said, “Well, if the vehicle I came in on this morning was parked out there, the Sprinter would be sitting in the parking lot.”

 

He looked bemused, but not amused. I guess that wasn’t the answer he wanted. A vision of the Sprinter sitting in the parking lot flashed through my mind. I giggled. He frowned and went off to continue his search for the owner of the offending vehicle.

 

When I left the library, I noticed that the aforementioned bookmobile was still parked on the premises. Actually, it would have been impossible not to notice that particular bookmobile. It’s a 74-foot tractor-trailer known as the OverDrive Digital Bookmobile. The Digital Bookmobile travels around the country, visiting schools and libraries and educating students and library patrons about eBooks and eBook platforms.

 

Going home on the train that afternoon, I decided that my comment about the Sprinter was probably just a tad bit snarky. I felt kind of bad about that. I really do try to be nice, but, hey, I was tired and a bit moody.

 

Sorry about the snark, but it’s probably not for nothing that I have a (custom made) T-shirt with lettering that says, “Sarcasm: just one more service I provide.”
 

Bus Lines: They Can't Arrest You, but They Can Shoot You

I’ve been a bus rider since I was thirteen. Yes, I do have a driver’s license, a brand new one, actually (lousy picture, but thank you, California). However, I’ve found that, for me anyway, using public transportation is more convenient most of the time. I don’t have to worry about finding a parking space or dealing with distracted drivers, meandering pedestrians, and a variety of emergency vehicles. And riding the bus is less expensive than adding a second vehicle to the household.
 
Several times during the week, I’ll take the neighborhood bus to the downtown transit center (DTC). From there, I’ll walk to either the library, Starbucks, or Barnes & Noble. All three are within reasonable walking distance, and I can use the exercise. I don’t know who or what created the bus schedules, but whoever or whatever was responsible for them did a great job. Most of the buses arrive at and later leave the DTC at the same time. If I want to travel to one of the outlying shopping centers or to another city, I generally have a short wait before transferring to another bus.
 
Once in a while, the neighborhood bus runs late, and I miss my connection. That’s when I spend twenty or thirty minutes doing some serious people watching. Hey, it’s a bus station, and bus stations do tend to attract “interesting” people. I try to be inconspicuous when observing fellow bus riders (or the individuals who seem to just hang out there every day). I admit that I sometimes pull a notebook and pen out of my backpack and jot down my observations. Discreetly, of course.
 
Well, no one has asked me why I’m taking notes. Not yet.
 
Several individuals roaming around the area have (unsuccessfully) asked me for money, but people usually mind their manners. So far, I haven’t witnessed anything wilder than a man screaming obscenities at no one in particular. (I moved away from that one pretty darn fast.)
 
Last week, I overheard a driver and a passenger discussing a fellow who has been permanently banned from the DTC. Among other things, he made inappropriate suggestions to a female bus driver. “It takes a lot to get you banned from the transit center,” the driver said. “Whenever that guy shows up, we call security.”
 
Security, in this case, is the transit police. The transit police can enforce rules, resolve conflicts, and order people off the property. Sounds like they mean business, and they do. However the business they’re allowed to mean is rather limited. I recently learned that the transit police are not authorized to make arrests. In the event of a serious issue (I don't want to even imagine what that might be), they must send an SOS to the city police. That seems a bit odd because the transit police are armed.

Hmm…. So they can’t arrest you, but they can shoot you.

Bus Lines: Viewer Discretion Advised

People should use discretion when posting on Facebook and other social media sites. Everyone knows that, or everyone should. And everyone also should know how to exercise a little discretion and a lot of common sense when sharing personal information in public places.

For example, take this little scenario that happened recently.

A woman got on the bus, plopped into the seat in front of me, and called a friend. I'll call the woman Loud Lady, because she was. “You'll never guess who I slept with last night,” Loud Lady said.

Ears perked up at the front of the bus; a couple of heads swiveled around.

I wondered if the friend guessed right.

“No,” Loud Lady said, giggling, “not the one I’ve been going out with. The other one.”

Oops. After that news flash, the woman realized she had a captive audience. She probably figured it out when she noticed several passengers glaring at her, including the woman accompanied by three small children.

“Well, I guess everyone on the bus heard that,” Loud Lady told her friend.

“Yep, we sure did,” the fellow sitting across from her piped up.

I thought about advising her to try texting the next time she has a news flash.

I thought about it, but I didn’t.

Christmas Season on the Bus

I rode the bus home from Barnes and Noble yesterday. The man sitting across from me looked really sad.His uncombed hair probably hadn’t seen a bottle of shampoo in several weeks, and his clothes were badly stained. He looked between 75 and 80 years old. I had never seen him before; I had no idea as to what his circumstances were.

Even though he was a stranger, I felt bad thinking that perhaps he had no one who cared about him or who checked to see if he was okay.


Everyone (well, maybe except for someone who’s really, really evil) should have someone who cares about him or her, especially at this time of year.