Recently in No. 71 Watertown Category

"We're all family" shouts a middle aged man, looking at us all through thick glasses while he points his finger at us randomly. #71 Watertown is more or less known for carrying a load of wacky passengers."You're my sister, I'm her brother, you're her mum! We're all family here!"

My "brother" usually gets on the stop in Harvard Square and promptly assigns me a new sister and mum every morning. Then he puts his fingers in his right jacket pocket and grins. Until the next passenger enters, in need of a family member. "You're my brother!" he welcomes the newcomer: "That's your sister over there!"

When is he going to assign me a husband? I've been wondering about that for some time. Perhaps there hasn't been any suitable candidates? But this morning, another passenger told me not to worry about the future.

I was getting ready to pay and get off. A quarter slipped away and hit the floor. Before anyone would get the chance to pick it up, I stomped to trap it with my Mr. Teen's green rain boot. It's raining HEAPS in Boston these days. There. Secured.

But the guy in the seat in front of me leaps out of his seat to pick up the coin, which is still half stuck under my boot. "I need to tell you something" he said, returning the coin. "Your eyes.." Staring at me, he points towards the windows: "..they're like that. Windows to your soul."

"Why, thank you," I mumble and close the windows.

"I need to tell you something more" he insists. "Today - not happy. Life is like that." He stares intensely at me, now he suddenly grabs my arm: "You're a good woman. Man, Woman, it's all in the eyes. Skin..." He hesitated and let go of my arm to pinch the skin on his wrist.

"Skin... is nothing. The soul is everything. Your eyes, the soul."

I agree, happy to see that my stop is next.

But he had more information. "Today, not very happy, very bad today" he tells me, before adding with a big smile: "Tomorrow, VERY happy. Oh, yes! Believe it. He is taking care of you."

Upon reaching this conclusion, my fortune teller quickly ran off the bus and vanished.

No 71 Watertown stopped at the stop just a minute before I got there. I wasn't running: my first stop is the last stop of the route, and the drivers usually get out to stretch before they drive off again.

A MTBA car was parked on the other side of the street. Someone sat inside with the window rolled down, killing time. The bus driver, a large, italian looking bostonian walked towards him excitedly, tucking his shirt into his pants: "How yah get there? Yah cah's FILTHY. Who's lettin' yah drive dat cah? (In Male, this means "how are you! I'm so glad to see you!")

I passed them silently and got onto the bus. It was empty.

Some minutes went by before the driver came back, winging himself into the bus, leaping into his seat with rough, wild movements. The doors closed and he got the engine running, shouting joyful farewells out the window to the other guy.

We drove through the intersection and towards Harvard Square. The driver made a few, careful dance moves in his seat, humming to himself. Suddenly, he leaned abruptly over to the left, steering the bus towards the tunnel down to the station. I flew sideways down my seat, but somehow managed to hold on tight. Oops.

Just as we entered the tunnel, Mr. In A Fantastic Mood Today took a deep breath, followed by a very, very dramatic pause. No more humming! In the driver's mirror, I saw his face change colors, slowly. There is not a whole lot of pollution is this place, I thought, thinking that I should probably tell him that it wasn't really necessary to hold his breath? But before I got to say anything, he slammed the breaks hard and we stopped. Oy. Was he having some kind of asthma attack?

Suddenly, a scream so horrifying and frightful that my blood froze stiff loomed through the bus. Startled, I stared at his face in the mirror, my heart beat harder, faster, his face turning redder, redder, violet, blue... white...then he stopped and snapped for air. Ten seconds of silence passed.

"Ha ha ha ha" he snickered softly, now fixing his hair in the mirror. That's when he saw me.

"You he'hah?" The large, gruesome voice had become small and gentle. "You shoul'dah told me!"

"I was just waiting for my Tarzan fix of the year," I explained. "And you were quite excellent!".

No. 71 Watertown's first stop lies at the end of Cambridge Common. Not the greatest park there is, exactly, but the obligatory monument, green trees, a lawn, a playground and a baseball field makes the Cambridge Common a park nevertheless.

Most visitors are harmless beggars, sleeping off their misery. Some are people hurrying through on their way to work/home, or students lingering before classes. Sometimes, the beggars leave behind large quilts of blankets, cardboard, and other items useful to set up camp, ready for re-use. Dog owners and parents of course, resent this.

Waiting outside for passengers, the bus driver leaned over the fence with a cigarette in his hand, staring at a something at rest in the middle of the lawn. "How are you," he welcomed me, not taking his eyes off the thing. At a distance, I heard the noise of a lawn cutter vehicle, mowing away steadily. Gradually, it came closer and closer to the object on the lawn.

"I can't believe it!" said the driver, shaking his head. "How can you sleep like that?" He tossed the cigarette to the ground and stepped carefully on it, leaning back onto the fence, studying the scene more carefully. The cutter, now a few meters away, made a turn and vanished away towards the other end of the park, leaving beautiful, green, orderly and short grass trails behind the wheels. Soon, he would return, even closer, even noisier. Still no movement from the man in the grass.

"I'd love to sleep like that. Not to mention the free haircut!" I replied cheerily, climbing into the bus with a book in my hand: Reading Lolita in Tehran. The bus driver shook his head once again, not taking his eyes off the beggar.

Inside, I chose a seat close to the back; these are sturdier than those in the front. No. 71 Watertown is a bumpy ride. Patchy, slightly hilly roads: Ancient buses, barely holding together.

The driver finally entered the bus, but the suspense over in the park was too much. Without the end, he couldn't start the engine. I picked up my book and read:

"In another Nabokov novel, The Real Life of Sebastian Knight, Sebastian's brother discovers two seemingly incongruous pictures in his dead brother's library: a pretty, curly-haired child playing with a dog and a Chinese man in the act of being beheaded. The two pictures remind us of the close relation between banality and brutality. Nabokov had a special Russian term for this: poshlust."

We waited a little longer, watching the man driving the cutting vehicle, then watching the beggar in the grass. A man passing by stopped his bicycle to watch, too. When the cutting vehicle finally stopped, the rest of us were pushed into motion. Poshlust.

They were an unusual couple. Three torn up plastic bags hung from his arms, his hands pushing her wheel chair gently. Her eyes were stern but quick, spotting a soda can in the trash at the bus stop just as he stopped her chair. "Get it" she commanded, with a little nod towards the bin behind me. He obeyed, lowering his head, glancing silently around at the passengers in the waiting area. Some looked away, not to embarrass him. She followed his walk closely, looking away when he returned. The old man put the can in one of the bags. She brushed off her well-worn wool jacket with a serious mine, staring into the air, eyes intensely unsmiling.

It was a long wait. Suddenly, she got up, limping around the chair. He secured the wheel on the right side and moved away for her to get around it. She passed him. He secured the wheel on the other side. The crowd carefully yielded away as she limped forward. The old American, watching from a distance, didn't let his wife out of sight.

Some minutes went by.

She returned and made an extra round around her chair before falling back into the seat: A small, surprised cry of pain slipped her lips. He relaxed, sighing softly, putting his hands back into his pockets. Not a word was spoken, no eye contact made between them.

Finally, the bus! Suddenly no one cared to watch the elderly couple: The crowd pushed anxiously towards the open doors. Wedged into the stream, I reached for the old Japanese woman's hand to help. Her face broke into a huge, unexpectedly warm smile and her eyes met mine: "Thank you!" she exclaimed, "Thank you!"

He climbed up the stairs behind us carrying her neatly folded chair, placing the bags on the seat in between them.

The bus filled up; a young man stopped right in front of me and blocked my view.

Just as the bus began to move, I heard his voice. "Yes, I fought the Japanese in the war!" He sounded happy, excited. Twisting my neck, I spotted his conversation partner: A female, Chinese student sitting next to his wife. The Japanese woman nodded with a cheerful smile and a soft shine in her eyes. So this was how they met! He continued the story. From my seat, I caught only little, abrupt pieces: "...and she grew up with her mother in China, who was pretending to be her half sister, and half Chinese too!" "Oh!", exclaimed the student. "But she was Japanese! And she told her that she would never be married and nobody would want her!" he continued. "Noo!" the student cried, shocked. The old woman proudly nodded again, gently, eyes glowing. "and then I ..." began the husband, but I couldn't hear his voice anymore, the buss was too noisy.

Yet the story went on. Through an open space between some passengers, the student expressed surprise, distress, suspense, and then relief, while the woman's radiant, beautiful glow grew stronger and stronger. Her husband wanted her.

She is not unaware of his presence.

A few soft, blase side-glances carefully sweeps towards his aisle, but he is wise enough to stare blankly into the air, as if deep in thought. Make no contact, not yet. He is very good at being one with the crowd, looking pre-occupied. Yet, tilting his head slightly down, her shapely figure, her lovely blond mane and hazel brown, warm eyes still distract his mind, while he pretends to be thinking of nothing in particular. A little sigh suddenly escapes. No sighs! He closes his eyes in shock. Did she notice? A quick check, he doesn't think so? Make no moves, whatever happens, sit still. Time passes.

The bus hits a bump. Racing as he feels her gentle sweep rest a moment at his neck, his heart now almost stop as his gaze inevitably is thrown in her direction. Their eyes met. Shivers fly down his spine: She must have noticed! He adjusts his posture, gains back his calm, eyes firmly latched onto the nature outside the window.

The bus stops.

He was not only tall, dark, and devilishly handsome: he was also staring dreamily at her.

Did he really think she didn't notice? A pink, curly, long tongue falls from her mouth as she wheezes, the warmth in the bus is too much for her blonde fur. Well, he should have - after all, he is a Seeing Eye dog, too!

She noticed how the blind man clutched his leach, softly pushing him closer when new passengers entered the bus. She noticed how he himself tenderly looks upon his owner now and then. There is no chance. Both tied to human beings, and anyway, this is her stop. Her panting pauses while she raise her nose towards him, just before her leech pulls her towards the exit steps. Their snouts meet.

A moment of silence lingers as old doors close and his tail falls too the floor.