Waiting for the 63X at the Mineral Station—June 16, 2004

I had romanticized it. Public Transportation. To family, friends, anyone who would listen, "I'll be traveling solely by the bus and light rail for the next four weeks," I had proudly proclaimed, like a farmer showing off a prize pig. "I'll have so much time to read, and I won't have to sit waiting in traffic, and I'll be helping the environment..."

The romance ended June 16, 2004 at the Mineral Light Rail Station.

As the light rail train I was riding approached the station, I saw the bus pull up to the stop. "Score," I thought. The rain had started while I was in Einstein's, back on campus. Raindrops had speckled the windows of the train car. Since when does it rain in Colorado, I had mumbled to myself.

As I walked across the pedestrian bridge, sure it would wait; I watched the bus pull away. I strained to see if it was even my bus. Pretty confident another would come soon, I retreated to wait in the shelter.

A man-was he Peruvian? Columbian? He had dark, weathered skin and black matted hair that fell to his shoulders. His shoes were worn and his heel hung past the bottom of the shoe, possibly too small. His jeans drooped, seams tattered and loose, dragging on the wet pavement, over his dilapidated shoes.

The rain began to fall harder and quick lightening lit the sky. Commuters scurried past with copies of The Westword or jackets or briefcases covering their heads. I stood protected from the rain by the shelter, holding my book and watching the rain. Thunder crackled overhead, yet the man remained motionless, standing just outside the shelter. I tried to read, but the rain pounded harder on the shelter roof. I stared out at him. The rain didn't seem to affect him. Droplets of rain trickled over the deep wrinkles around his eyes. I thought about sticking my head out to say, "Hey, it's dry in here!" But, I decided I should read my book.

Just then my bus came around the corner. I took my umbrella and walked out into the rain to meet 63X. The man walked past me and boarded another waiting bus.

"West. I only go west," the driver said with a thick foreign accent. "Well, what about the east bus, when does it show up?" He handed me the 63X pamphlet. "4:11." I glanced at my watch. 3:48.

I retreated once again to the shelter. I've got my book to read, I'm dry in here, no big deal, I thought to myself.

Suddenly the man appeared again, this time joining me in the shelter. An overwhelming stench of urine and unwashed clothes filled the small space.

So this is why people don't use public transportation.

I turned and realized a shabby comforter blanket starting to darken with wetness was strapped to his back with rope or bungee cord. It was obvious to me he had no home. As one of my hands held the book my mind was fighting to focus on, my other hand fingered a package of chocolate covered graham crackers in my pocket. Impulsively, I took the package out and turned to the man. "You want this? I ate one, but I don't want the other." Without hesitation he grabbed the small package and mumbled a "sure" and a "thank you" before shoving the cracker in his pocket.

I quickly and awkwardly went back to my book.

A few minutes passed. "Don't you�.mumble mumble mumble?" It sounded to me like, "Don't you go to Utah?" I thought about giving my speech about how people are always telling me I look familiar, but thought better of it. "No, no I don't," I answered, immediately turning back to my book.

The urine/unwashed smell had taken over my nostrils. I glanced at my watch: 3:52.

So, did he pee his pants, or is this just from not washing his clothes?

I had friends in college who had, in a completely drunken oblivion, peed their pants. Is this what happened to this guy, and he couldn't wash?

Book. Book. Use this time to read the book.

But, it just smells so bad, like garbage in New York City on a hot summer day. I glance out the corner of my eye. Still raining, can't stand outside.

A deep pain was growing in my stomach. Suddenly I 'm worried. What if I puke in here? Do you report that kind of thing to RTD?

Just don't breathe in.

Time check: 3:59.

So, this is why people don't use public transportation.

OH! Too big of a breath. Short. Short, shallow breathing. God, that's a horrible smell.

It would be really rude to move to the other shelter.

Book. Focus on the book.

A bus comes around the bend. 63X. Thank god.

I eagerly step out into the fresh air without glancing at my shelter-mate. The bus stops, the door opens. "East?" I ask, basically pleading. "East," the driver hollers harshly. I climb the steps and move to the side, just behind the driver to find my UCD ID. "EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME, SIR! I DIDN"T SEE IT!" Startled and convinced she's yelling at me, I jump and show her my ID. "Not you!" she barks, and it's then I notice the now familiar, but just as awful smell. The man is behind me at the top of the steps, pulling a card or slip of something out of his pocket to show the driver.

I step to the side. I want to see where he's going to sit, before I find a seat. So I fumble with getting things back into my backpack as he sits toward the front. I walk toward the back of the bus, sniffing, judging whether or not I'm far enough away. I settle on the very back of the bus, on the same side as the man. A deep puddle of water collected under the back seat on the opposite side prevents me from picking that seat.

I pull my book back out, still convinced I can smell him. The bus jerks and rattles out of the parking lot and onto the main road. I have trouble concentrating on my book, yet I hold it open in my lap, my backpack next to me under my arm. I'm curious to see where the man gets off the bus.

The bus remains fairly empty, so it's easy to glance up and see that the man is still on the bus. I wonder about his life. Where did he come from? How did he get to Colorado? Does he have a family? Where does he stay? Where is he going on this bus? Is he concerned about the smell? Does he smell it anymore?

A barely audible ding alerts the bus driver that someone wants off at the next stop. A red lit sign glows at the front of the bus: STOP REQUESTED. The man stands and walks toward me and for a second I think he's coming to talk to me. He's making eye contact with me and the smell is strong again as the bus sways to a stop. I panic inside, my hands gripping my book. But just then the doors open and he exits.

I watch as he walks away from the bus, his smell hanging in the air like a cloud of offending gnats refusing to disperse.