Livin' In The Chonx

Public transportation is one of my favorite things about living in a big city. Unlike many of the other foreigners here, I rarely miss driving my car. Looking back, driving from one place to the next was often a lonely time, wrought with introspection, and less than happy thoughts. Here, there are the constant distractions inherent to public transport.

There are the busy times of the day, when people push and crowd, shoving their way onto the buses. Times when, I find myself standing on one foot, my center of gravity inextricably meshed with the warm bodies next to my own. As we alternately crawl through the deafening, stop and go traffic and careen around narrow switchbacks, I cling desperately to the nearest stationary object—the frame of the door, a curve in the ceiling, the edge of a seat. A woman’s elbow is digging into my back, the armpit that fills my field of vision is decidedly ripe, the old man beside me clears his throat noisily spitting centimeters away from my shoe. Each time the bus lurches forward from a dead stop, I step on neighboring toes. Despite the discomfort, the heat, the smell, such a scene normally amuses me immensely. The more people who attempt to squeeze onto the bus, the more amused I become. Sometimes an overwhelming urge to scream obscenities at the top of my lungs or start throwing elbows at nearby faces comes over me, but more often than not I’m content to stand there quietly giggling while sandwiched to the point of asphyxiation.

More frequently, I find myself traversing the city during less popular times. Early in the afternoon or deep in the night, both times when much of the city is sleeping. Being the foreigner that I am and accustomed to my foreign ways, I like to be doing things at those times. I can take a seat by the window, and watch the world glide by at forty klicks an hour.

Tonight is one of those evenings. I stand where the first night bus has dropped me off, in a busy district still bustling with street vendors, club hoppers, window-shopping couples crossing the busy intersection. This is a main stop along the arteries of the city, and I scan the street as a continuous stream of buses and taxis idle by. Eventually, I catch sight of the number I want in the distance, and move halfway into the street. The traffic continues to seep all around me. I squint to see the number more clearly as it approaches. 702. That’s the one. I move out a few more paces and began hailing the long, mid-grade passenger bus like a taxi. Picture someone waving down a Greyhound in the middle of New York City and you’d be on the right track. The driver comes to a rolling stop, and I take a few quick steps and a jump, grabbing the back door handles to swing myself up onto the bus. At the same time the scrawny little ticket boy, who looks no more than sixteen, grabs my arm and lifts me up the steps. My eyes widen for a moment, shocked by the amount of leverage his tiny frame is able to exert.

I settle into my usual seat by the window. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals the rows of empty seats behind me, stark and deserted under the harsh fluorescent. The ticket boy approaches me, “Where to?” I state my destination. “Where?” I try again. “I can’t understand what you’re saying.” I try a third time, by now my eyebrows are raised, and I’m giving him the what’s-up-with-you look, as if he’s the one with the problem. Finally, it gets through to him, “Oh! You mean such and such place!” which to my foreign ears sounds exactly the same as what I was saying only moments before guaranteeing that there will be no improvement next time.

As the bus picks up speed, the boy approaches me again to ask “Where are you from? I can’t understand your Chinese.” America, I reply self-consciously. He must not understand that part either, because it elicits none of the usual shock that I usually receive from that statement. We continue this one-sided conversation, him asking more questions, me responding, all the while not receiving any confirmation that he’s understood a thing I’ve said.

Occasionally, he remembers his duties on the bus. Leaning out the window he shouts out to the people on the sidewalk, every person a potential passenger. I strain my ears and listen to his slurring chant. Instead of the familiar destinations “Sha Ping Ba! Da Ping! Shi Qiao Pu!” I hear “Saingaaaadaaaaaingsiaouuu!” Instead of the bored look that usually characterizes the droning ticket collectors, this young one looks genuinely cheerful, revealing a mouthful of teeth as his smile stretches from ear to ear. He teases some of the passerbys, “Hey, you there! So handsome! Ride the bus!” As the bus passes close by another 702, he shouts out to the other driver, “About time to get off work, isn’t it?” and they have a good laugh together as we continue along our way. The boy heaves a noisy sigh, and sits back down. Business is slow tonight, but it will be several hours before he can punch the clock.

I try not to stare as he pulls handfuls of change out of his pocket and onto the seat next to him. A bemused look involuntarily spreads across my face. How new he must be to this job! His counterparts on the fancy two yuan buses (this one is half the price) wear full uniforms complete with matching caps, and collect money in shiny, red change boxes. In contrast, he, in pinstriped dress pants paired with worn out sneakers and a faded green t-shirt, is counting change on a bus seat.

Pushing my inhibitions off to one side, I inquire, “Excuse me? Can you tell me how old you are?” Why don’t you guess? He responds coyly. “I have no idea, 18?” 20! He announces triumphantly. “Oh! I can’t tell by looking at you. How old do you think I am?” I’m not sure, older than me? “Mmhmm, I’m almost 25.” Oh! I would have guessed 21 or 22. He flashes a disarming smile.

The bus is fast approaching my stop when suddenly he says to me, “Do you have a phone number?” Confused and not quite believing my ears I reply, What? “Give me your phone number, so I can call you!” What?! I’m about to get off the bus! I blush violently, looking around me to see if the other passengers are listening. There’s no time to discuss the matter though as we have arrived and I’m already stepping down onto the sidewalk. He shouts his phone number out to me as the bus starts pulling away. I am laughing. I can barely understand what he is saying, and in the next moment the sound of his voice is disappearing into the night and lost among the other sounds of the city.