Bus-riding reflection

Recently I've become acutely aware of a rather in-congruent habit of people who ride the public transportation in the City of Erie: they talk to strangers without inhibition.

Often times my days are spent sitting behind a desk tapping away on a keyboard into oblivion with the subconscious realization that my grant-writing skills aren't worth a damn: due to the fact that my comprehension of mathematical concepts encompasses only a cursory knowledge of all elementary arithmetic, my grants are shot down before the review committee due to a very shoddily-written budget report that--by some unaccountable reason--makes money disappear by the hundreds. I don't really interact with anyone besides my fellow coworkers--a whole three of them--whose conversations, although much-appreciated, end in some futile bantering and complaining, and my young, strong body full of pulsating blood not yet slowed by the encroachment of cholesterol is left to rot like a lump of meat with my lumbar pushed up against the back of my desk chair. Is this how I'm spending my youth? Lonely, sedentary, and with no real excitement to break the monotony of my day?

I jump on bus numbers 22 and 25 that traverse Erie city from West to East, as they follow pot-holed filled roads out towards the po-dunk town of Wesleyville, full of its 60's-era shopping malls and fast food joints. The most enjoyable of my fellow passengers are the modern-day stoic philosophers who have traded in their marble steps outside the courthouse, for a dirty, plastic chair in the midst of an Erie bus. I lend them my ear when I hear them speak, and I am enthralled at their brashness and their flawless ability to spark up a conversation with nearly just about everyone, even (more often than not) with themselves. Speaking in tones that fluctuate in crescendo and power like that of Baptist preachers, my philosopher friends of the bus, pose questions for all of us to ponder--often times looking us directly in the face in hopes of an answer. Even when an answer is not forthcoming, they break into a monologue that is at points boundless in scope and accurate in observation; however, usually ending in an abrupt distraction brought on by the sight of a nubile woman, or a beer-lathered belch.

Yet, I'm never uncomfortable with those more verbose fellow riders, as I find their ways more authentic than the public domain of today's social arena, which is often dominated by people continually texting and listening to ipods. Insular. Uninterested. Closed-off.

Upon exiting the bus, I make my way to Erie's local institution of scholarship and higher learning, Gannon University, where I proceed to make my way into their gym facility. And, as I stretch to engage in the upcoming run, I notice that out of all the 15 runners on the track, it is only I who does not carry within my palm an ipod. It is only I who can hear the repetitive click of my bracelets smacking together with the swinging of my arms, or the deep breathing originating in the straining of my lungs. And, with no one to talk to, with no one seemingly interested in communicating, I am lost in a world of my own thoughts--running, in circles, for the next thirty minutes. There is no one there to ask questions. No young scholars brash enough to engage those around them. That kind of experience is only found through daily meetings with the toothless alcoholic carrying a plastic bag and a life-long list of grievances and stories.