I don’t mean to cast aspersions on the driver’s ability to tolerate alcohol or meth or whatever awakens in some folks that suicidal drive to direct an empty bus into a ditch but I do want to whine for a second about the system controller’s inability to channel the oftentimes sloppy impulses inspired by an edible. 

The decision to extract the bus immediately, during the afternoon rush hour east, was a lightning bolt of stupid and the plush leather padding on the chair of that desk-bound controller should be confiscated and the guilty individual should be sentenced to sit on a bench from that bus for the rest of their employ.

If I appear to be angry with the silliness of these people – who have managed to convert an “award-winning” mass transit system into an amateurish imitation of the transit systems now getting the awards – I must disabuse you of that notion toot sweet. To wit:

I had a lovely ninety minutes communing with the commuters. Beyond our cumulative exhaust it was a bright sunny spring afternoon and I was content in the recognition that I didn’t have to travel this route very often.  Plus, my music doesn’t suck. Since I was wearing a winter coat, I had my windows open. It was a fine day and I was going to enjoy it.

We were somewhere outside Gloucester and were stopped more than moving so I took the liberty to consult my phone for a fresh playlist. Though a brilliant day, the air was cold and all my neighbours had their windows closed (except the vapers) and excepting the top contender for this year’s Optimism Amid a Midlife Crisis Award, who sat at the wheel of a red convertible stuck behind me with the top down. When he first set out to impress his date, he probably thought he was just going to open ‘er up for a brief stint on the highway, shake out the cobwebs, get some nipples erect. He, with his faithful stiff-nippled girlie by his side, got to shiver his frivolous ass for over an hour despite his optimism. He comes up later – his suffering is not done. 

The music analogue decided to get personal with me by assuming that I was in the mood for some music by The Band Whose Name Must, Apparently, Never Be Mentioned. As it turns, I was and forgave the presumption. 

1984/07/13, Greek Theater. A Berkeley classic! 

I may have pushed the volume a tetch.

Off to my right there was a show going on. The fields were freshly plowed and the turkeys were fleshly proud as two toms strutted their stuff in full plumage for a mildly interested half-dozen hens. They were assembled in a dirt field, about the distance from me of six articulated busses parked in a row (Aren’t they always? Except, of course, when leaning hard to stern in a highway ditch). The girls were pretending to be bored with the prowess before them in full regalia. It was beautiful to see, the toms were indeed handsome with their tails fanned into symmetrical bands of plumy colour ranging from black to light tan. They had flaming red wattles and I could see them wobbling from the highway. I wasn’t going anywhere so I enjoyed the show. I couldn’t tell if the toms were rivals or working in cahoots. They appeared to be dividing up the objects of their desire between them. As the score was three to two with one to go, each was guaranteed a harem, why hassle? 

Their wings were spread and pointed forcefully downward, which made the next gesture significant: the tom with three hens on his side lifted one wing and turned it up, exposing the banded white feathers underneath. It seemed a magnanimous gesture, a generous “You go ahead.” Probably the origin of the term wingman. 

Turkeys in cahoots – it’s got a ring to it.

As I said, everybody else’s windows were closed, so what’s the harm, eh? I did not think for one second of the convertible behind me. I saw it back there me occasionally as I scanned the lanes and mirrors for signs of progress. My empathy must have been stuck farther back in traffic that I shouldn’t have considered their plight – trapped on the 174 with no exit in sight and the guy in the Ioniq in front of you has a live Grateful Dead (oops) show cranked to the max and his windows are open. He kept dropping further back leaving space for anyone, please anyone, to fill the gap between us but there were no takers.

Finally, as “Drums & Space” faded and “Stella Blue” evolved into sweet, sad song,  he pulled up closer. 

Everybody loves “Stella Blue.”