The sun Is shining when I get on the No. 151 Bus. Chicago’s landscape1 is at its dingiest—leafless trees, piles of slush, cars splattered with salt.
The bus goes through Lincoln Park for a few miles, but no one looks out of the windows. We passengers sit silently jammed together in heavy clothes.
No one speaks. That’s one of the unwritten rules of Chicago commuting. Although we see the same faces every day, we prefer to hide behind our newspapers. The sight is striking; people who sit so close together are using those thin sheets of newspapers to keep their distance.
As the bus approaches the Magnificent Mile, a row of sky-scrapers along Michigan Avenue, a voice suddenly rings out, "Attention! Attention! Attention!"
Papers rattle. Necks crane.
"This is your driver speaking. "
Stillness. We look at the back of the driver’s head. His voice carries authority.
"Put your papers down. An inch at a time. " The driver waits. The papers are folded and placed on our laps.
"Now, turn and face the person next to you. Go ahead. "
Amazingly- we all do it. Still, no one smiles. Just mindless obedience.
I face an old woman, her head wrapped tightly in a red scarf. I see her nearly every day. Our eyes meet. We wait, unblinking, for the next order from the driver.
"Now, repeat after me. . . " It is a command, delivered in t\ tones of a drill officer. "Good morning, neighbor!"
Our voices are weak, timid. For many of us, these are the first words we have spoken today. But we say them together, lit schoolchildren, to the stranger beside us.
We smile to each other. We cannot help it. There is the feeling of relief, that we are not being kidnapped or robbed. But more there is the faint sense of unleashing a common civility Ion repressed. We have said it; the barrier has been broken. Good morning, neighbor. It was not so hard after all. Some of us repeat it. Others shake hands. Many laugh.
The bus driver says nothing more. He doesn’t need to. Not single newspaper goes back up. The bus hums with conversation, We start by shaking our heads over this crazy driver, which lead to other commuting stories.
The bus driver, a warm, bubbly sound I have never heard be fore on bus No. 151.
When we reach my stop, I say good-bye to my seatmate, they jump from the doorstep. Four other buses have pulled up at the same stop, and some passengers get off. – The riders still seated look like statues-unmoving and silent, except for those on my bus. As No. 151 drives away, I smile as I watch the happy faces of the passengers. This day is starting off better than most.
I look back at the driver. He is studying his mirror, searching for an opening in the traffic. 3 He gives no sign of being aware that he’s just pulled off a Monday morning miracle.