As we’ve noted in these cyber-pages, there’s been some confusion about the new bus schedules following the MTA’s massive cost cutting in recent months–especially regarding the M-1 along Park Avenue South.

By the looks of this sign on the M-1 bus’s route, it appears the MTA has everything in order, and is doing an exemplary job communicating the new schedule to riders.

All sorts of weirdness on the M1 bus this week.

I hopped on at 40th and Park Ave South yesterday, and didn’t realize until we’d pulled out at 34th Street that the next stop was 23rd–five blocks south of where I sought to exit.

I knew something was fishy when I went to hit the yellow let-my-ass-off strip, and nothing happened.

I stepped to the foul line near the driver and asked him if he could stop at 28th. He said it was the express bus, and I should’ve taken the local right behind us.

I occasionally take the M1, and have been doing so for a few years. There was never any distinction between locals and expresses on this line.

This same bus I mocked in these very cyber-pages just weeks ago for stopping way too much, now stops way too little.

Stopped at a light at 28th, I asked Mr. Bus Driver to simply open the doors and let me sneak out. No dice. “If you fall, it’s on me,” he said. (Frankly, judging by the size of him, falling on the man didn’t seem like it would be too painful.)

Today, more of the same. I was going to walk, but saw the bus sitting at the light at 40th and hopped on. Once we crossed 37th, a woman of about 40 who had some sort of history with the driver, a large, stone-faced black man of about 40 with a moustache, flirted from the foul line. She had an injured foot and wanted him to stop at 33rd. He wouldn’t go for it. She tried every trick in the book: told him it would be good for their friendship, threw in a comment about a fun trip to Atlantic City with her friends coming up, all that. He didn’t bite, and dropped her off at 34th.

The woman, well dressed with big sunglasses and straight brown hair, said good bye and limped off.

Seated in the front seat, I listened to see if the man would announce the next stop. He did not.

At a light at 31st, I asked if he would stop at 28th. He said no, next stop is 23rd. I asked how one was supposed to know the difference between an express bus and a local bus; he said the expresses have a Limited sign in the windshield. But he told me not to bother remembering that, as the bus would no longer run down Park Ave South in a few weeks.

There were only five other people on the bus, and two started howling (not including me) when he cruised past 28th. One, a white man, necktie and khakis, most notably a hook for his right hand, yelled, “You’re the ONLY one who won’t stop at 28th! I’m gonna lose my fucking job because you won’t stop at 28th! I’ve got a handicapped pass, and you’re making me walk five blocks!”

I wanted to point out that having a hook for a hand probably won’t slow his walking down, but wisely stayed quiet.

The man told the driver he’d never announced 23rd Street. I told the driver the man was right, I’d been listening the whole time–from the front seat, no less. I’d even taken my iPod off to eavesdrop on the funny conversation between the woman on the bad foot and the driver. (Oddly, my iPod shuffle prophetically brought up The Guess Who’s “Bus Rider” while I was on the train this morning…Why is The Guess Who even on my iPod?) 

“I don’t know what you’ve been listening to,” he said. “I said it.” 

We got off at 23rd. As I made my way up Park Ave, I heard a loud ping behind me. The man with a hook for a hand, furious at the driver and the system, had whacked the side of the bus with his artificial appendage.

As I walked past 27th a moment later, I saw an M1 bus easing over to the sidewalk to stop. It had a Limited sign in the windshield.

WTF?

It’s a beautiful day, I should’ve walked anyway.

* Headline refers to obscure Springsteen song called “Does This Bus Stop at 82nd Street.”

The M1 bus.

I take you, M1 bus, every once in a while, when the mankind morass assembled at the 4-5-6 train escalators in Grand Central seems too foreboding, or these tired legs just don’t have the requisite spring to catapult me down toward lower Park Ave. South.

Frankly, M1, you’re not very prompt, and it’s usually faster to walk than to wait for you. And your driver that rides the horn every block or so–she should chill out a bit. Maybe do some yoga.

Maybe you’re so slow because you stop too much. I mean, you stop on Park Avenue South between 27th and 28th, M1. No problem there–28th is a nexus, with a subway stop, and a Mickey D’s and Duane Reade to boot.

But then you stop between 26th and 27th, M1. That’s a block later!

Don’t you realize, M1, that this is why people make fun of you and your bus brethren? You’re playing right into your stereotype: too many stops, too many folks who are advanced in age, weight or, typically, both, climbing on and off. Those minutes add up!

With all the proposed cuts in the MTA beckoning–entire subway and bus routes wiped off the map, token clerks banished to unemployment–can we really justify stopping between 27th and 28th, and again between 26th and 27th?

I think not.

By the way, I work right on 26th, so thank you for stopping right in front of my office. Some days the legs just don’t feel like walking all the way from 27th.

Ambivalently,

Trainjotting

Number of words uttered by grim-faced M1 busdriver after I boarded and said “Good morning” today: 0

Number of times grim-faced M1 busdriver honked her horn as the M1 plodded through construction-induced congestion on Park Ave. South between 40th and 38th: 6

Number of times grim-faced M1 busdriver honked her horn as the M1 seemed to be making good progress down Park Ave. South between 38th and 28th: 2

Number of words uttered by grim-faced M1 busdriver after I said “thank you” and “have a nice day” upon exiting: 0

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The Pee-ples’ Limousine

I have a peculiar compulsion, one that would seem to be in unfettered opposition to the notion of fast-paced urban living. Given the choice between the bus and the subway, I will often choose the bus.

Surface transit is somewhat more civilized and, despite its tortoise’s pace, it has its own benefits. It commonly will get you closer to your final destination. The seats are roomier and several even allow a fair amount of personal space. In case of emergency, it can be rerouted. It is closer to fulfilling Thomas Moore’s prophetically Utopian ideals of commuting, but of course, nothing is perfect.

Here we come to a recent trip on the M1.

The M1 is one of Manhattan’s more interesting bus lines. It begins well up in Harlem, passing the entire length, and part of the width, of Central Park, crawling past some of the most expensive commercial and residential real estate in the world. At 40th St., it becomes the only NYCTA bus to travel down Park Ave., sliding over to Broadway at Union Square, and ending up at Battery Park. It shuttles the rich, the poor and the stupid (yours truly in that last category).

After dropping my son off at his elementary school where he learns readin’, writin’, and proper Catholic doctrine as established during the third Plenary Council of Baltimore, I headed for the bus. The Limited, with its joyous stop-skipping and thick-legged ballet steps down the lower Broadway bus lane, arrived, typically un-crowded, and far more elegant then the nearby 6 train.

I chose a seat in the back, near two women: one a professional type and the other looking like she’d experienced some solidly joyless times. The latter had a small shopping bag, somewhat soiled and re-enforced with packing tape, filled with assorted papers, as soiled as the bag. In her hand, she held a Bible, heavily dog-eared, the kind that would be swung around by a seersucker-clad revivalist in a hot tent. The only other truly marked characteristic was a solid odor of urine that didn’t seem to be coming from the business type to the left of me. When she leaned forward to flip through the bag of important soiled papers, it appeared as though the Faithful had made good use of three copies of AM New York, saving the seat from a good soaking and wicking away some excess liquid from her dark raincoat.

Granted, this was not the most pleasant way to start the day, but it also gave me some sociological confidence in this town. 

This moistened fundament, juxtaposed with the career gal type’s obvious disgust, reminded me that the egalitarian nature of public transportation is alive and well above ground too. There are no billionaire mayors or spoiled food-carting gentlemen representing highly dubious homeless organizations. But there are still these moments of pure social equality, where the class system seems to be a moot point.