The Odd Woman and the City by Vivian Gornick Page A

did,” he said.
    The driver stared at him. “No, sir,” he said patiently, “you did not pay your fare.”
    â€œYes, I did,” the old man said, and went back to staring at the floor.
    At the next light the driver swung out of his seat and stood before the old man. “Sir,” he said, “I can’t go on until you pay your fare.”
    The old man looked up. “I paid the fare,” he said evenly. “I can’t help it if you didn’t see me do it. I’m not going to do it twice.”
    The old man and the driver locked eyes. Slowly, the stare became a glare. The old man began to look like a bulldog, the driver another kind of animal. The old man was white, the driver was black; for a moment I thought …
    â€œMister,” the driver yelled, “this bus ain’t going nowhere until you pay your fare.”
    â€œOmigod,” the woman beside me breathed.
    â€œWhat the hell is going on?” a man three seats down called out.
    â€œI paid,” the old man said again.
    â€œHe’s paid, all right,” a man said softly.
    The driver switched off the ignition and began speaking into the phone on his dashboard. Up and down the aisle people perked up with interest and agitation.
    A woman in black leaned toward a man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and, one finger tapping the side of her forehead, stage-whispered, “Senile.”
    â€œHey,” a voice called out from the back. “Let’s get this show on the road, I gotta get downtown.”
    Two people began discussing the legal and social ramifications of the case. “Ain’t no way that driver-man can keep goin’, he don’t pay the fare,” said one. “But what if the old man ain’t got the money?” said the other. “Baby, you ain’t got no money, you don’t get on no bus,” came the swift reply. “That’s the law, man, the law.”
    The driver stood in the aisle and announced loudly, “Everybody off the bus. Sorry, folks, but this bus is not moving. I’ll give you all transfers.”
    Stunned silence. Nobody could believe this was happening. Then everyone was yelling at once: “What the hell, I gotta get, you can’t do this to us.”
    At the back of the bus, a wounded howl went up from a young man who until this moment had been dreaming out the window. Now he stood up, his slim body a glory of black leather and silver studs. He stalked to the front of the bus, planted himself before the silent old man, and spat out, “What-choo wanna make yourself so cheap for? For a lousy buck and a quarter. Man, for that you gonna put us through all this misery?”
    The driver, a tall, well-built man, stood unmoving as the passengers streamed toward the doors, but in his face I thought I saw an accumulation of the insults that daily life flung at him. In thirty seconds we were all off the bus, milling about in the street. Interestingly enough, no one walked away and no one speculated on why not one of us had thought to simply pay the old man’s fare.
    â€œOh, this lousy city,” the man beside me crooned softly, “goddamn this lousy city.”
    I looked back at the bus. The old man was still sitting in his seat, his hands on his walking stick, his eyes on the floor. Suddenly, as the confusion on the street was mounting, he stood up, climbed off the bus, and, like a figure in a dream, walked away into the crowded afternoon. I plucked at the driver’s sleeve. “He’s gone,” I said.
    The driver’s glance followed mine, and without the flick of an eyelash, he announced, “Okay, everybody back on the bus.”
    In silence, everyone filed back onto the bus. Each passenger sat down in the same seat he or she had occupied before. The driver took his seat, closed the doors, and swung expertly out into Fifth Avenue traffic. I looked at my watch. One hour had elapsed from the time the driver had