Winter sucks. There’s just no getting around it. Highs in the single digits and below zero wind chills make life miserable for everyone who has to so much as step outside. However, I’m convinced that those that suffer the most are those that wait for the bus. There’s no way to describe the sense of misery I feel as I step off the train on one of those cold, cold mornings and walk to the bus stop, knowing I could be standing there for over half an hour.
It’s hard to feel alone in my suffering, though, when I see the same people at the bus stop every morning. In my 15 months of commuting to the loop on the brown line, even though I always waited at the same stop, I never recognized anyone. Somehow, the bus stop is different. It’s like an odd little club we have – everyone knows everybody else, usually not by name, but at least by sight.
It’s an odd social situation, really. I’m both fascinated and frustrated by it. I see these people more often than my family or most of my friends. Consequently, I will sometimes mention them when I’m telling people about my day. But it’s difficult to refer to a nameless face. So what do I do? Ask their names, in an effort to fight the isolation in a crowd that all of us city-dwellers live with? No, silly readers. That would require a great deal of initiative and the breaking of many unspoken public transportation courtesies. Instead, I assign them my own set of names.
There’s a girl, probably around my age, that waits for my bus in the morning. She almost always has a coffee in her hands, and wears a red ski jacket. What really strikes me about her, though, is her curly hair, especially since it’s often still wet as she stands in the cold. Ergo, I know her as Curly Hair Girl. We commiserate about the cold from time to time, but I really know nothing else about her.
Once I board the bus, there are a few other people I always see. One man is almost a fixture in the front side-facing seats. He’s there, every morning, with a thread of yarn slowly being pulled out of his backpack as he knits or crochets. To this day, I can’t figure out how he keeps his stitches so straight on a bouncing bus. He’s Knitting Guy.
There’s another man – a bit of a newcomer, starting to ride my bus a month or two ago – that sits in the same seat each morning, facing straight ahead and scowling. His coat is an unappealing shade of orange. He’s Angry Orange Coat Guy.
Of course, there are a few regulars at on my bus home, as well. One is an older woman with a fabulous head of long white hair, always held in place by combs. She’s friendly with the drivers and very likable. She’s White Hair Lady.
Another regular is a boy who must be a student at the U of Chicago Lab School. He’s always camped out in a corner in the back, working on his homework. Hence, he is Homework Kid. Before he gets off the bus, he always does a second check of his seat to make sure he has everything. For some reason, this always makes me smile. His mom taught him well.
You may think I’m odd for assigning these people such goofy names. I thought I was odd, too, at first. But then I learned I am not the only one who does this. I have a coworker that sometimes rides my bus home, and we had a discussion about this once. Turns out we both have the same name for White Hair Lady.
Not all our names are the same, though. On one bus ride we shared, when a twenty-something I call iPod Guy got off the bus, I mentioned his name to my coworker. She said something to the effect of, “Oh. I’ve always just called him ‘Guy Who Gets Off Here and Goes That Way.’” (And you thought my names were bad!)
To be fair, some people are kinder with their names than me. I sometimes ride a bus home that makes only limited stops. Since the stops are so far apart, there’s tons of time for passengers to pull the cord that signals the bus driver to stop. However, regardless of when you pull the cord, you only have to do it once. There’s one woman that stands for the entire 7 minutes between her stop and the one prior, tossing her hair long black back and forth and pulling the cord every thirty seconds. For some reason, I find this unspeakably annoying. My friend has seen this woman, too. She calls her Long Hair Lady. Me? I call her Obnoxious Cord Puller.
While finding out that I wasn’t the only one that did this made me feel a little better, another thought also occurred to me. If people I know also create these names, people I don’t know must do so as well. And that means I’ve probably got a name or two of my own.
But what do people call me? I’ve got some theories. Last winter, I tended to wear my black peacoat with a bright red hat. This year, I’m partial to my down coat and my pink scarf. So I’m guessing there’s at least a few people who know me as Red Hat Girl or Pink Scarf Girl.
One never knows what will catch people’s attention, though. Maybe the hat and scarf are not my most distinctive features. Maybe people remember me for my love of the RedEye crossword, and I am Crossword Puzzle Girl. Perhaps people can’t understand why I choose to stand outside the bus shelter, even in the bitter wind, and I am Shuns the Shelter Lady. To the other woman who carries the same commuter bag as me, I imagine my name is Woman Who Has My Bag. Or it could be that my habit of saying hello to the driver when I get on and thank you when I get off is my most distinctive feature, and I’m Girl Who Talks to the Driver.
I’d love to believe that last one is the most prevalent name I have. Unfortunately, I think Furry Boot Girl is far more likely.
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