I thought mass transit would be back to normal last night. On Friday night the bus wasn’t even leaving the city, but dead ending in the ghetto, so I returned home, and called the boss, telling him I’d be in for the morning shift instead. I figured that would be the last MTA hiccup left over from the riots—and I suppose it was. The real problem is almost no one is riding the bus at night any more.

Of the 25 blacks and 5 Mexicans normally on the bus there were 4 blacks and 1 Mexican, just like during the riots! These are working people. The cab drivers are starving—not that people in our bracket can afford $50 cab fares for working a $60 shift.

Where are they?

The odd thing was how they all stared at me—except for the Mexican Mama, whose daughter is usually with her; a real pretty young thing who is forever getting asked out on dates by the black guys. For an answer she has two things programmed on her smart phone, in large print English. The first one is, ‘I Don’t Speak English.’ If they persist she pulls up, ‘I AM MARRIED!’ If they keep it up after that Mama gives them the eye, and they back off. Mama’s probably the baddest person on the bus. I could well imagine her taking us all out with a fish knife. Mama does not stare at me, just gives me that, ‘You have given me no reason to summon my sons, so you may pass Gringo,’ look of alien matriarchal ire.

The blacks, however, all regulars except for one well dressed gay dude, bugged their eyes out as if I was a four-armed white Barsomian ape.

None of the 1-3 hoodlums that occasionally afflict us were there.

Where was everyone?

I decided to go to sleep, with my back to the plexi-shield before the rear door. When I opened one eye the black girl across from me, who usually travels with a mangina, was just staring at me in amazement. I nodded off for a while, then the gay dude started running his prissy mouth to a girl, who happened to be one of his employees at an upscale clothiers in Towson, headed home to Essex—which he should have just about worked his way out of. Since I could not go to sleep I took notes:

“Look at this wretchedness up in here. This is the most ghetto place you ever didn’t wanna be! They need to infuse some money into this mess. I normally bypass all of this blight on the highway, but I lost my car in all that stupidity [the riots] week before last. I’ll be getting a ride through CarMax in a few days, so I’ll be with you for the rest of the week. Where is everybody? This can’t be it—ain’t no holiday.”

Young lady: “Nobody has been on the busses at night since that mess. It’s creepy out. I got my boyfriend picking me up at the stop.”

Manager: “Sweet Jesus, would you look at the colors on that’s strip mall? They need to fix that. You know strip malls are coming back. Malls like we work at are a thing of the past—good God look at that bank up to the Wal-Mart, take a million Mexicans to clean that shit up. This is a blight. How can people live like this?”

As Mexican Mama gets off, the girl answers, “Oh it’s terrible out here. You go to the shoe store over there, and those trifling people won’t even say hello when you walk through the door. People over here are all about the EBT [food stamps] WIC and so on.”

Manger: “That is pathetic. We sold a five hundred dollar pair of shoes tonight. You better believe you don’t do that without a smile and a polite greeting. What is this world coming to?”

I ran out of receipt paper and nodded off. When I woke up and offloaded only three patrons remained and the major transfer point was empty, except for one man hanging out behind the shelter I was passing. The three cops I usually see in route to work were nowhere to be seen. As I hit the 7-11 it occurred to me that I need to start carrying my hickory cane, or make some other provision. It feels like another world, a world I may very well prefer over the one that died three weeks ago, a world that is not going to let me off easy for being unarmed.