I Don’t Think the Bus Driver Hates White People

I have an 8:00 meeting this morning, so I’m going to take the early (6:36) bus in. I almost never go in this early, so to be safe, I am already downstairs putting on my shoes at 6:29. Sometimes I joke that I live so close to the bus stop that if I hear the bus from the second floor window of my house, I still catch it as it goes by. That’s an exaggeration, but not by much. Now I hear a sound outside that could be the bus, but I know it’s not, it’s never this early. Still, I peek out the door.

It’s the bus, already on the corner. Crap.

I dash out. The bus stop is diagonally across from my house, and fortunately, the bus is waiting at a red light. This gives me a chance: I run down to the corner and across the street with the light. Now the bus and I are facing each other, I wave, cross the other way when the light turns as the bus waits an extra couple seconds, and get on. I am feeling good about the world and my place in it.

Still, 6:29, that’s super-early. Unless maybe this is the previous bus, running super-late? I think I should say something to the driver. “Excuse me, which bus on the schedule is this?” It’s the morning, everything is rushed, who knows if I actually said “Excuse me.”

The bus driver, not one I’m familiar with, is not pleased. He barks at me: “It’s whatever bus it is when I get here!” I look behind him, see the bus is mostly empty. I know from experience that if it were the previous bus, running late, it would be overcrowded, so this must really be the 6:36. I give the driver my ticket and try to explain: you’re running way too early, people who count on this bus will miss it, then the next buses are overcrowded and run late, etc. I ask him to wait a few minutes to get back on schedule. He remains very hot, says (yells) that I better stop talking to him, threatens to call the police if I don’t get away from him. The good thing about him yelling at me is that the bus is still not moving. A couple people, breathless from running down the street, get on the bus while we’re going back and forth. I count this as a small victory.

A large man walks up the aisle from the back of the bus. I am hoping for a little support from a fellow commuter. “You better fucking stop talking to him so he can go!” he yells at me. “You’re holding the bus up! He’s going to call the cops!” This guy looks like he’d like nothing better than to slug me. “He’s calling the cops!” The bus driver is not calling the cops. My fellow passenger, though he is louder than the driver, does not actually take a swing at me. I sit down in one of the many empty seats.

The bus doesn’t move.

I take my book out of my bag and try to disappear into it. It is eerily silent. In moments of suspense, time feels suspended. The bus still doesn’t move.

Finally, after what must have been only a short wait but didn’t feel that way, the bus huffs and trundles forward. I check the time. It is exactly 6:36. We have been waiting for just a few minutes.

I mull things over as the bus heads into the city. I feel good that I managed to stay calm through the whole episode. Maybe this will be a good story to tell the children — the importance of keeping your cool. It occurs to me that the bus driver ended up doing exactly what I asked him to — waiting to leave until he was scheduled to, to the minute. Or was that just a coincidence? Something makes me decide to talk to him again, though I can’t tell exactly how or why I make that decision.

The bus pulls in to Port Authority. I am going to wait for everyone else to get off and then try to approach the driver. As the people ahead of me are getting off, I hear the usual end-of-trip courtesies: passengers say thank you, driver says you’re welcome or have a good day. That’s encouraging: this isn’t one of those guys who’s so nasty that people give up on saying thanks at the end of the ride.

Once is everyone else is off, I get off too. The driver is standing to the side. “Thanks for waiting a few minutes at the bus stop,” I say to him. “I wasn’t trying to pick a fight, I just…”

The driver is looking me in the eye. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “I get what you were saying.” I talk to him about the schedule, he says he understands, sometimes they get off schedule and it’s hard to keep track. We are talking to each other like people now. He says he’s sorry, and he seems totally sincere. I tell him my name, because that seems like a talking-like-people thing to do, and he tells me his. I was hoping to make peace, but this is more than I expected; in under a minute, our conversation has turned comfortably fraternal. I am feeling good about the world again as I head inside the bus terminal.

Now another man slides over to me. He is fiftyish, tall, thin, with slightly graying hair, wearing jeans and a blazer. “You know,” he says,”I saw the bus driver yelling at you, I got a video on my phone. I’m going to call the bus company.”

I don’t actually want him to call the bus company. I tell him that I just had a good talk with the driver, and that he seemed very direct and sincere. My companion isn’t impressed. “He’s just afraid for his job,” he says. He tells me that the driver has done this (I think he means run ahead of schedule) once before, that people were running for the bus and he didn’t care. He looks at me a little conspiratorially. “I think this guy just hates white people.”

Well. The driver, like the majority of bus drivers I encounter, is black. I am white. The guy I’m talking to now is white. The passenger who was yelling at me earlier is white. Most people on the bus are white, with a few exceptions. What is the logic here, how do you decide that a black man driving a bus full of mostly white people hates them because they’re white? Does the white man who came up to yell at me before hate white people too? Why do we look differently at angry black people than at angry white people?

The man I’m talking to is going his way and I’m going mine, and there isn’t time to ask these questions. But I as I walk up 8th Avenue on a sunny end-of-summer morning, I realize that I’ve lost the tidy story I was going to tell my kids about the virtues of keeping calm. And perhaps a bit of my confidence in those virtues as well.


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