Bus Stories No. 3: The Purse

We're sitting toward the front of the bus, the three of us. I can't speak for the others, but I for one am tired. Exhausted. I've got a coffee in hand, but it just isn't working this morning. It's too early, and the week has been too long.

We're nearing the last stop, and the crowd has thinned out. Earlier there were many people, some standing, others sitting, all going. There were two men with stubbled faces and rugged packs - travelers, it seemed. They had similar features and complexions, though one was much older, judging by his grizzled hair. Father and son, perhaps. Despite their hardened good looks, they seem strangely uncertain, out of place. Eventually the older one leans forward and asks us, the others, if we are nearing the train station. The young woman sitting beside me says something, but I can't hear her at first over my mp3 player. It becomes clear that she can't help them, so I take off my headphones and tell them that it's not far. A woman sitting across the aisle leans forward, elaborating: "it's two stops." She's friendlier than the average transit user.

The girl next to me is evidently amicable, too, for she tells me, "I'm new here, I don't know the area." She's being friendly, but I'm not much in the mood for being awake, let alone conversant, so I smile and put my headphones back on. The travelers get off at the train station, disappearing onto the misty platform as more passengers pile on. The coffee still hasn't kicked in, and I'm not very interested in the commotion. I wrap a protective arm over my satchel and close my eyes.

A few stops later I open my eyes, and once again it's just the three of us at the front of the bus, myself and the two friendly woman. I notice, though, that there is a purse sitting on the ledge behind the driver's alcove. It wasn't there before. I look around, but there doesn't seem to be an owner.

They see it, too, the others. A few more passengers board, and I watch while they pass the purse on their way to the back of the bus. They notice it as well, but keep on walking. A few minutes go by and we're nearing the terminal. We all stand up to depart. No one is saying anything. As the bus rolls up to the platform, I ask if the purse belongs to anyone. They shake their heads and leave.

I reach to pick up the purse, and hesitate for a moment. Maybe I've become paranoid, maybe I distrust people too much, but the thought crosses my mind - could it be dangerous? Don't be ridiculous, I tell myself, it's not a bomb. I take it to the driver, tell him someone left it. "Shit" he says. It's clear from his distasteful expression that I've just made his day worse. As far as he's concerned, I should have just left it for some less than scrupulous passenger. Not his problem.

The coffee still hasn't taken effect, and my feet are heavy as I leave the terminal. It's one of those mornings where you have to fight the impulse to curl up into the fetal position and shut the world out, and the purse episode isn't helping. I watch as the friendly women walk into the distance, and wonder if they would have left it there. Good people doing nothing, evil triumphing and all that jazz. I'll never know, just as I'll never know if the purse found its way back to its owner, and whether she was grateful or just irritated at the trouble of having to retrieve it. 

But perhaps that's an uncharitable, overly dualistic perspective. As the women fade into the distance of memory, it seems to me that some mornings, we're all just grizzled travelers, uncertain of our destination.