90 Bus Versus 70 Bus, A Comparison

Some of you might think that I write about Metrobus a little but too much. Rest you assured, you have never been more wrong. There is no possibility for this to be true. Metrobus, even when awful, is awesome, even if it is awesome just for it's sheer awfulness. Circular logic? Never heard of it. Must be big in Japan.

Some friends of mine like to claim that the 90 bus is the worst bus in the District, while I contend, after living for more than a year on Georgia Ave, home of the 70 bus, that the 70 bus is the bus that epitomises the "bus" experience. What, pray tell, is the "bus" experience? You'll understand by the end of this post.

Today I had the pleasure of riding both buses. That's right. I did it on purpose. For you. I'm always doing things for you.

First, The Ninety Bus:

Requisite person with missing limb, requisite person in a wheel chair. These two things are required for ALL 90 bus trips. I don't know if Metro issues every bus with a set of each or if there is just some unstudied symbyosis. The bus stopped on average twice a second to let on ten people and let off two people. Buy the time I got off the bus there were people sitting on the roof a-la-indian train.

The Seventy Bus:

I sat in urine. When I jumped up in disgust/horror, the woman behind said "What, you didn't smell the seat before you sat? Foolish!"

Any bus line where customers would be expected to smell the seats for urine wins, hands down. Game. Set. Match.

Sidenote: Ignore the sirens you might be currently hearing. It's just the fire department attempting to douse a blaze in my front yard. It's amazing how much gasoline urine-soaked pants require to ingnite, but once they do, stand back, friends.

Metro staff perform a routine cleaning of a 70 bus.

My Be-trucked Avenger

Sometimes commuting in DC really sucks. Newsflash, I know. But this morning something totally awesome happened.

I, trudging though the rain, wishing I had remembered my umbrella, had just missed my bus at the crosswalk. Had I awoken thirty seconds earlier the bus would have been my chariot, my womb, my place to read the newspaper out of the rain. But I didn't, so the bus went wooshing by with an angry hiss, splashing water. I darted across traffic, risking my life. People who drive from Maryland into the district do not like pedestrians, it seems. They do enjoy honking.

There was some problem at the traffic light far ahead that was keeping traffic to a crawl. I ran after the bus. I almost caught it, and then it picked up speed and moved further away. A greyhound chasing a mechanical rabbit, I continued the dance of the late commuter. I would advance on the stalled bus, and then just when I was a few lengths away, traffic would pick up and it would proceed. I would gain, then again, my gains would be lost. Finally the bus just up and left me. So I did what any rational adult does. I stood on the sidewalk and flipped off the receding bus while humming “La Marseillaises .”

That's when my avenger showed up, driving a blue pick up truck. He yelled from the rolled down window “We gonna catch that bus! Get in!”. I complied. He had also been stuck in traffic and witnessed my unsuccessful bid to catch the errant bus. We flew down 16th Street, passing cars and running red lights. I asked him if he usually drove this fast and he said “Only when I'm tryin' to catch a bus.” Really? Does he do this often? True to his word, we passed the bus, and at the next light, I jumped out.

I got on the bus and slapped down my SmartTrip card with the passive-aggressiveness only commuters can truly attain. My every motion screamed out my anger at the bus driver. I am sure he was like totally shaking in his bus driver seat.

That guy totally kicks ass. Thanks, Jamaican-carpenter guy with the blue truck. You make DC an acceptable (and hilarious) place to live.