tales from the bus: where is that Snyders, anyway?

Late at night, and we’re getting into downtown Minneapolis when this little Italian-looking guy hops up to the very front seat and says, all flippant, “Is there a Snyders coming up here? I haven’t seen one Snyders all along the route. I thought I’d see one.”

A pause.

The bus driver, a big black man, replies, “I think there’s a drug store downtown.”

“That’s a Walgreens,” says the little guy.

A chill-girl of a U of M student, majoring in French I think, pipes in.“Plus that Walgreens closes at 7,” she says.

The little guy is, starting to lose patience. “Where’s the nearest Snyders?” he demanded.

“The closest one I know is Nicollet and 46^th,” she says. She turns back to look out the window.

At this point the little guy takes whatever he was carrying in his plastic bag and throws it on the bench across the isle. To me, it looks like a plastic CD case. He’s slouched down in the bench.

“What’s with this bus. It’s going all over the place,” he whines.

The bus driver keeps his eyes on the road and says, “Look, man… if you’re gonna complain, don’t get on the bus.”

“Why are you stopping all the time?,” he asks. His voice is shrill. “We’re going all over the place.”

“The bus is what it is. That’s how the bus goes,” said the driver. He was getting fed up, and continued, simply “If you don’t like it, don’t get on it. Walk, or ride a bike.”

“You should have more direct routes. You’ve ruined my night,” whined the little guy. He waved his arm up before his face to make the point.

“Then take a cab. Aww, shit.” The driver let it out like a sigh, a day’s worth of driving.

The little guy sulked, slouching back. “I wish I had a car. They’re more convenient.” At this point, his tone was like Matlock closing the book on a docketed wrongdoer, all ipso facto, here’s mud in your eye. He’d proved it, the bus was bad news.

I got off, so I don’t know what happened next.