I was waiting patiently for the B41 by myself. While waiting, I watched and listened to the many subtle things that often go unnoticed. The wind carrying every lightweight object in sight, including dust particles, an empty bag of Cheetos, broken leaves, and used tissues. Two stray cats were searching through the trash cans on the sidewalks.
Suddenly, the activity increased. People running out of their homes like machines and crowding the bus stop — increasing the search for the next bus. One by one, people gradually went mid-way into the street to check for any sign of the bus. Instead, the desolate road was filled with nothing but pothole and a mirage of headlights in the foggy distance. Each car racing passed me, vroom… vroom…
A white man dressed in gray slacks and black oxford shoes made himself very apparent after glancing at his watch twice in the same minute. He brought his palms to his face to blow warm breath into his red, stiff hands. He then shoved his hands into his pockets. I could hear the keys in his pocket jingle.
The block was gray and the only movement were the flock of pigeons who aimed their beaks to the ground and flew above the those standing at the bus stop. Some even came in so fast the almost flew into the heads of walking pedestrians. I ducked, I had to. Down the block you can hear the strong Spanish accents of men in front of Key Foods who were unloading food products off of long white trucks tagged with graffiti. They had a system: as one man unloaded from the truck, a man in the middle took the merchandise, and another man carried the merchandise into the building.
Groups of kids who carried large backpacks walked passed the bus stop every so often. Their laughter could be heard by all. They spoke at a volume that interrupted intimate conversations of people who were standing at the bus stop. They walked and walked until their laughter could be heard no more.
Among them was a girl who wore her hair in pigtails and sneakers that lit up. She was listening to her music so loud that everyone could hear it.
One dark-skinned woman was speaking on her cell phone in a heavy Caribbean accent. Her voice echoed, traveling across the street bouncing off of the gates of the unopened shops. Cars parked by the private homes pulled out of the driveways, leaving the block vacant and barren. Everyone was moving swiftly. I kept watching the time, standing there among a group of faces. The wind slapped me across my face and whistled so loudly. The wires swayed back and forth on the telephone poles, moving slightly in the air.
I could see headlights break through the fog. Finally, a bus showed itself. When it approached, people at the bus stop slowly reacted by sucking their teeth and shaking their heads.
One man who had been listening to his music, said out loud, “are you kidding me?”
“My feet hurt," said one of the small girls with the pink bubble coat.
The digital strip at the top of the bus read: NOT IN SERVICE
The time of day and cold weather did not alleviate the situation.
An hour had passed, and the herd of people grew larger.
Everyone was busy minding their own business, as with any place in the city, at least until we met this last passenger of the bus we awaited.
A woman with shoulder-length gray hair, a wrinkled face, and a hunched back was walking slowly behind a walker, dragging her left foot behind her right. She was about a block away. She was wearing a green windbreaker and black yoga pants. She passed the bodega, greeting Bobby the owner of the store, and leaving with a pack of cigarettes. She took six steps every minute. Her cough echoed so loud, it could be heard from the bus stop. She was getting closer. With every step she took, the cough’s frequencies diminished, leaving a solemn silence to dominate the air. She smiled at everyone she passed and said: good morning. When it was my turn, my face was embraced by a warm smile. An hour has passed—I looked up and there was the local bus, in service and pulling over to the bus stop. Everyone gathered by the pole, reaching for their wallets.
