the secret life of bus drivers

Usually my commute is pretty quiet. Today was one of those chatty bus days where most of the people around me were gabbing to each other. Even the bus driver was in on it.

The woman across from me somehow got into a conversation with the driver about this PBS documentary she stayed up late to watch last night about Ulysses S. Grant. I have no idea how they got on this subject (I was trying to read my don't-talk-to-me bus book, The Body Farm - I've been digging the Patricia Cornwell murder mystery novels lately, but that's a whole other post unto itself). Anyway, the woman is talking about how Mary Todd Lincoln couldn't stand Grant, "especially when he was losing the war." And how Grant and his wife turned down an invitation to go out to the theater with the Lincolns (yes, that time) because they were leaving for New Jersey to visit relatives. She was raving about the documentary, mentioning that the Lewis and Clark documentary from the same series was so good that she was thinking about buying the tape.

So part of me is feeling bad for the bus driver because he's a captive audience, and while this woman wasn't a freak (just a PBS-ophile), there are so many who like to talk the driver's ear off that I don' t think I could ever stand to do that job. Well, that and the fact that I hate driving in traffic. That might also curb my bus driving ambitions a bit.

Then, the topic takes an unexpected turn. Somehow (again, I was trying to read) the driver brought up this car accident that he and his wife were in. Apparently they were rear-ended pretty hard; his wife hit the windshield, but was basically fine. He thought he was okay (his chest hit the steering wheel), but was getting severe headaches for a few weeks afterwards. Ever since then there's been several words that he just can't pronounce and sometimes he has difficulty thinking of the right word for things. The doctors think he bruised his frontal lobes.

He explains that he memorized a few bits of trivia, so that when someone gives him a hard time about not being able to come up with a word or mispronouncing something, he can say, "Well, I bet you don't know what they call the v-formation that geese fly in..." or one of five or six other little-known facts.

At first, I'm completely taken aback that the driver is sharing such a personal story (and still trying to figure out how they ever got on the subject). And then I realize that while he's shuttling people around all day, he doesn't really get a chance to ever talk with them. He's probably got all sorts of stories bottled up wanting to come out.

Me, I keep my conversation to "good morning," "thank you" and "good night." But I'll keep my ears open the next time I'm sitting in the front of the bus.