MRS. 42

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about how being a dad, instead of scaring all of the weirdness out of my life, had actually added all kinds of absurdity to it. Another example of this came to mind driving the kids to school this week.

Since I often work late, I make it a point to try to drive the kids to school, and have been successful in being able to do that about 90% of the time over the past 5 years (early morning conference calls, business travel and hangovers account for the other 10%). On the days when I know I’m going to be working particularly late, I realize that the 5 minute car ride to school will be my last chance to hang out with the kids on that day, so the pressure is on to have a worthwhile conversation with them. Unfortunately, I am decidedly not a morning person, and my children seem to be taking after me in this regard, so my attempt to get things started with “What are you going to do at school today?” is often answered with silence, or the shout of “HOW SHOULD I KNOW!!!” If they knew how to swear, this is when they would use that skill.

Our route to school includes a two mile trek down Fairmount Boulevard, one of the swankier streets in the Cleveland area. Trying to maintain the illusion that public transportation is for everyone, however, Cleveland’s regional transit authority mandates that a bus travel up and down the length of Fairmount six times a day: three in the morning and three at night. This bus - Bus Number 42 - is almost always empty or virtually so, since anyone with the means to live on or near Fairmount Boulevard almost certainly has a car (some probably have chauffeurs, even). I happen to personally know how full the bus is because the 3rd and final pass of the morning down Fairmount each day occurs right at the 8:15-8:20 a.m. time that I take the kids to school. So we end up actually seeing (and passing) the bus about once a week.

If we’re a tad early (or the bus a tad late), about halfway along our trip down Fairmount, we see an odd site: someone actually waiting for the bus. Other than a few nuns who appear to be from outside of the United States, I've never seen another soul waiting for the bus.

She's a woman, probably in her mid to late 50’s, standing at the bus stop. Slightly on the smaller side and apparently of some kind of some indeterminate Asian descent. Thick, coke-bottle glasses.

She rides Bus Number 42.

She is Mrs. 42.

When I’m struggling for conversation with the kids, whether or not we are going to see Mrs. 42 is something the kids will talk about. The kids may not want to talk about their day, but they’ll speculate as to whether she’ll be there (they’d probably gamble on it if they knew how ... actually, hmmm...). If I see us approaching Mrs. 42, I have to inform my younger child so he has sufficient time to actually turn his head and look out the window (as all parents of young children know, this action surprisingly takes at least 6 seconds, so you have to tell them to look out the window pretty damn early).

If we don’t see her, my older daughter will sing a song (to the tune of Scooby-Doo):

Mrs. Forty-Two.
Where are You?
Did the Bus Pick you Up Already?

And if we’re lucky that day, and actually get to see Mrs. 42, well, that topic of conversation will carry us all the way until drop-off. “Is that a new coat?” “She looks tired today” “I think she got a new pair of glasses!” “I like that red umbrella that she has.”

I can only imagine what this woman would think if she knew that there existed a 4 year old and an 8 year old (and a 35 year old) who were experts on her wardrobe, where she likes to stand, her stance, her schedule.

Not only does Mrs. 42 give me a conversation topic, she provides other benefits. We use Mrs. 42 as a geographic marker now. If the question is “Are we almost to school daddy?” then I can answer, with complete understanding, “No, we’re not even to the Mrs. 42 spot yet.” We use Mrs. 42 as a racial marker. “Y’know the guy that looks kind of like Mrs. 42?”

So thank you Mrs. 42. Whoever you are. And thank you for whatever odd reason exists to make you ride the bus every day, whether it’s that you never learned to drive, a DUI, an involuntary manslaughter or maybe that your car is being repaired by the slowest auto mechanic on the planet. Thank you from the bottom of the morning-hating hearts of me and my kids. You make our morning drive a happy time.