Scenes From A Bus

In the fifties I loved to ride the bus, looking out the windows as tree and dog and people rushed past, all scurrying to destinations unknown to me.  The houses and building flew by in a blur, my young eyes never able to focus on a single image until the bus stopped for a moment allowing me to look into the windows of cars next to me or through the large glass fronts of a corner store, people smiling and waving to me from inside. A curious sight I recall.

The bus would lurch forward then and the blur became a passing painting, mixed with the colors of the rainbow and hues of the day. The fifties rode off into the sunset.

In the sixties I loved to ride in my Volkswagen bus, looking out the windows as the tie-dyed danced around a roaring bon fire, music belching from stringed instruments of every sort, rhythms pounded out on drums and cans. Happy, smiling faces waving to me, flashing peace signs and launching kisses into the air.  A beautiful sight I recall.

My bus passed them by and drove on into the day while I recorded non-forgettable memories that last even now. Soon the sixties rode off into oblivion.

In the seventies I loved to ride in my custom van, decked with shiny paint and giant sparkling wheels, radio blasting rhythms of dance.  I looked out my windows to the large collared shirts and bell bottomed pants as they danced along the avenues.  Record stores every twenty feet playing music from large speakers on the street, groups gathered at each one, snapping fingers, slapping sides of light posts to the hypnotic beat. Happy, smiling faces waving to me as I passed. An unforgettable sight I recall.

My van passed them slowly, absorbing the pleasure of the music and the sincerity of their smiles.  Soon the seventies faded into darkness.

In the eighties I loved to ride my motorcycle down the alleyways and side streets of the city, where the traffic was kinder and the dogs would jump out and run beside me for blocks, where the cars yielded in narrow passages and the children playing in the street would wave and shout for me to race the motor to a fever pitch. Rowed houses with doors open, occupants sitting on the front porch sipping lemonade in the summers fair, music cascading over rooftops and down the bricked streets, reverberating and adding melody to the rumbling of my bike.  A most pleasing experience I recall.

Soon the alleyways and side streets grew smaller.  The children played indoors and the summer was left to its own demise as the eighties became a distant memory.

In the nineties I would ride in my Cadillac, windows tightly rolled shut, tinted seclusion of obscurity.  Radio playing as I tapped my steering wheel with the beat of the music coming from twelve speakers, each one adjustable to hear every note, every string, every vocal as if the studio were wrapped around my car.

Streets quietly winding through the canyons of skyscrapers that blotted the sun and the sky.  Small groups gathered waiting for the cross town bus, not speaking, huddled within dark clothing, hands in pockets, examining the concrete slabs beneath them.  Music played into earphones, eerily silent.  A sad heart I recall.

My Cadillac surrounded me in privacy and security as I drove as the nineties fell onto deaf ears.

As the new millennium and century begins, I love to sit in my back yard on an old swing and watch the birds and butterflies at play.  My little dog runs amuck in the yard, nipping at the heels of squirrels and barking at unseen things.  I swing, silently thinking of other times and other years, smiling from time to time for myself.

In the distance I hear the blare of music, harsh and foreign, and the blast of loud horns from the cars passing several blocks away.  Annoying I recall.

If I had but one wish, if life would be so kind to grant it, I would live forever as a child riding a bus to nowhere, and yet, to perfect destination.

John Malcolm Pouch, Spring, 2001