Adventures on the Bus

Let me start with a brief explanation, so I don't come across as a total weirdo. Or maybe I still do. Who knows. I have something that we like to call "anxiety problems" or, in some cases "brainworms". When it's under control, I can see a fuel truck at the top of the street when I'm crossing at the lights, and though I will imagine it skidding out of control, bursting into flames and pinning me beneath it (combining three of my greatest fears; trucks, fire and being trapped) I will cross the street anyway. But when I'm stressed out or upset or whatever, and the anxiety is not quite under control, I will probably just retreat to a safe distance and make an excuse not to cross at that exact moment until the truck is gone. I know, I know. Never a dull moment. 

Anyway, on with the adventures. A few weeks ago I mustered the courage to attempt a bus journey alone. I was trying to get from my place to my friend's. Nobody knew the bus I should get, or where to get it from, so I tried using the metro website for LA. (For anyone who is a tourist; don't use it. It sucks balls) Sadly, the website requires you to actually know the exact bus stops you're leaving from and going to. And, as you will discover later, it has another little glitch as well. But for now, we'll skip that and just say I eventually figured out that I could catch the 92 near my apartment and it did indeed list a street near my friend's house as a destination. Win! So off I went. Unfortunately, nobody had informed me (or the bus driver, apparently) that there are TWO Irving Streets on that route, so even though I'd asked him to let me know when we got there, I was doomed from the start. He alerted me to our arrival at Irving, I hopped off the bus and spent the next ten minutes wandering around trying to find a familiar landmark... and finally I called my friend and she figured out I was at the wrong street. She dispatched her husband to pick me up, and we all laughed about it and concluded I'd never make that mistake again. 

That brings us to Monday afternoon.

Once again, I decided to risk the bus. Already a bad idea, because I wasn't in the most stable frame of mind, thanks to an increase in brainworm activity. But once again, I checked the bus schedule online, scraped together change for the machine and stuck my last five dollar note in my wallet in case of emergency. This time, I was more than prepared. The bus breezed past the first Irving and I remained on it, patting my own hand comfortingly. Up Glenoaks we went - it's a straight drive up Glenoaks from my bus stop to hers - and it seemed I was going to make it. 

Then, the bus turned left. Wait, what?? I whipped my head around to see if any other passengers were taken aback by this deviation from the route, but they all seemed to be aware that Downtown Burbank was part of this journey. In fact, most of them were standing up to get off. Well, I reasoned, there are some buses that take longer routes that the Rapids. That's what I'm always being told. Maybe this is just doing a loop and it will drive back up another street to Glenoaks. Yes. That's what it is. 

It turned left again. Maybe it was doing a really LARGE loop. I grabbed one of the information booklets provided on the bus and flipped through it frantically, but all it showed was a timetable for the 92, not the stops. When I lifted my head again, I was alone on the bus. And we had crossed over the other side of the freeway. The small part of Burbank that I knew was long gone. The bus pulled into a train station (?!?!), the guy cut the engine, and then proceeded to have a heart attack when he turned around and saw me standing behind him, clutching a crumpled timetable with eyes like a wild bushbaby. "Are we going back to Glenoaks? I need to go back. I have to go to Irving. But the second Irving. The internet said you would go there. I have to go back there."
Tragically, he did not speak English very well, so this rambling fool made no sense to him. He waved me off the bus and pointed at another sign. "292. Glenoaks. Past Olive. You get this bus. He will come soon."
The panic was mounting. "But I have no more change! I only have a 5! Is there a Starbucks? Is there anything? I can't cross a freeway!"
He gave me a very alarmed look, assured me that I could just tell the next driver I have no change, and wished me luck. I was alone, with no change, at an empty train station, where the only buses currently stationed there were dark and abandoned. There was really nothing left to do but sit on a bench and burst into tears. My cell phone co-operated nicely by failing or delaying the texts I sent for help, ensuring I was definitely on my own. 


When the 292 arrived, and the driver cut his engine and hopped out to go on his break, he wished me a cheery good afternoon and strolled past. But he did so in ENGLISH, which was a promising sign. I sucked back more sobs and attempted to scrub the mascara off my face. Luckily, it was 80 degrees and I was wearing my giant bug-eye sunglasses, so it was not immediately apparent that I was a dithering mess. Oh, but wait for it. 

After twenty minutes, he returned to his bus and flipped the sign on, and I scurried over to explain myself. But the panic attack had not yet finished with me, and I immediately started babbling to him insanely about needing to be on the other side of the freeway, and waving a five dollar bill in front of me like a handkerchief as I wailed and sobbed and sniffled about my lack of change. I assured him I would get off his bus at the first stop he came to, if only he wouldn't leave me here alone. With a kindly, if somewhat bewildered, expression he handed me a tissue and assured me he would get me home safely and I needn't worry about the fare this time. He directed me to the seat closest to the front, and chatted with me about how I came to be in LA, where I was from, and his desire to go to Ireland and Wales because he had friends there. He also noted I was lucky I spoke English; he was originally from Guatemala and when he first arrived in LA he only spoke Spanish and found it difficult to get around. 

By the time we set off, my wailing was reduced to the occasional hiccup, and I was feeling much more at home as we sailed up Magnolia towards Glenoaks again. Once we reached an area I recognised, I stood up at the front next to the driver (whom I was now on a first name basis with), clinging to a pole and nodding away. "I saw that high school before. I know that Starbucks." At each stop, I became more confident that I was going the right way now.


Behind me on the bus, a small gathering of curious onlookers finally asked what I was looking for. I told them the street name and they all conferred amongst themselves, then concluded that I was only two or three stops away. We all peered anxiously out the window, naming each street the bus breezed past, until suddenly that creepy automatic voice announced, "Next stop; Irving and Glenoaks." Success! They cheered, I sighed in relief and Frank the driver winked, "I told you I'd get you there safely." I thanked everyone profusely, scrambled off the bus and waved until they were out of sight. 


And no, I still do not know what fricking bus I am supposed to take. The metro website still just says the 92 will bring me the whole way. Lies! Treacherous lies! Thank God for Frank.