“May I have your attention please,” the loudspeaker said after we’d been sitting on the motionless Ravenswood train at Belmont for a number of minutes. “Because trains are not moving, there will be a Ravenswood shuttle bus making regular Ravenswood stops to the end of the line.”
“There is no more Ravenswood running tonight.”
He handed out transfers–punched NSM, not E for emergency, which you usually get when something breaks down–and we straggled out into the drizzly November night to wait for the Belmont bus, or whatever.
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It was nippy out there. Hamburger smells were from Muskies. The Belmont bus doesn’t run that often after 10 o’clock, I thought. But some of the people standing there had little experience with this. One saw a yellow Robinson school bus and said, “There’s the shuttle.” Another wanted to walk home. “Where do you live?” I asked.
Right. “I mean, the big cross street.”
“I mean, what about the bus behind you?”
We hurried. Seated on the shuttle, we watched the two trenchcoat guys reappear.
