When the northbound 36 Broadway bus stopped at Addison, he stood outside the back door. He looked at the closed door. He looked toward the front end of the bus, where a short line of people were shuffling on. It must have seemed a long way off. He held up his dollar. The door did not open. He looked around. He hesitated once more, then pulled open the door and climbed on.
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The driver yelled again, but there was no force in it. The man still had his dollar out. No one said anything to him. After the next stop, the driver picked up his phone. The man studied his dollar. It might be useful, but not here. He put it in his pocket.
As the bus continued northward, I hoped there would not be any confrontation. I was newly returned to Chicago, staying in a hotel until my apartment was ready, riding the 36 Broadway on business–and as a compression chamber to prepare me to live again in my old neighborhood. When I’d left, it was Uptown. I had come back to “Sheridan Park.”
The first cop on was a black woman. The driver told her someone had gotten on the back and had not paid. She wanted to know who. He said, “The guy back there in the blue jacket.”
The object of his scorn jumped up from the backseat, his trousers below his knees. He hastily tried to put on his hat, grab a book, and get his pants up. The driver herded him out without touching him.
