Biophysicist at the Bus Stop

When I went to high school, nearly all my friends drove to school (usually in cars provided by their loving parents). Back then, you could get a Learner's Permit when you were 14, with the possibility of an actual Driver's License at 15...so there was very little need to use the bus for transportation to school. As I recall, most of my friends considered it less shameful to walk the whole way than to ride the schoolbus: this was relegated only to the "not-only-poor-but-also-far-away" types.

Now, licenses and cars for the teenage crowd are both in shorter supply, economic times having changed somewhat over the years. Bus stops for older kids are crowded enough in my neighborhood to draw my attention, with the bus stopping by in the middle of my commute. It's difficult to determine ages here, with kids typically passing for 5 years older than they are in fact, but I would guess that the ones I see at the bus stop are middle-schoolers: 7th, 8th, or 9th grade. Since 9th-graders are are now cut off from mingling with the high school populace, there is no chance of catching a ride with an upper-class pal, sibling, or sweetheart.

Passing these kids every morning, you start to categorize them: jock, nerd, cheerleader, wallflower, psycho. The bus stops are found on streetcorners with stop-signs instead of lighted intersections; there isn't much time for assessment as my car makes the turn to the main highway. Little details count in the game of figuring out Who's Who Among American Bus Stop Scholars.

Some of the kids I see everyday, since they are consistently early arrivals. Others I have seen only once, running for the bus. There are kids with giant backpacks and kids who seem to carry nothing (unless it's artfully concealed in their generally baggy clothing). Definitely there are "groups" who I'm sure take delight in knowing they are in while others are out. And there is one girl who is for sure part of the out club: the Biophysicist.

Of course she's not a Biophysicist yet. She just looks like she could grow up to be one. Or a Brain Surgeon. Or the Editor of the New York Times. Or a Pulitzer Prize winner. Compared to the other bus stop girls, she is tall with an average build: she wouldn't make it in Playboy but doen't need to hit Overeaters Anonymous either. She wears small black-framed glasses, the kind that years ago would be super-nerdy (think librarian) but are now considered cool in an artsy way. Her clothes are just neutral---casual/hip but not trendy (Is that all her parents will allow her? Or does she specifically try not to draw too much attention?). She stands apart from the rest of the kids and usually has her arms folded in front or sometimes jammed into her jacket pockets. What I notice more is her expression: serious and thoughtful, like she's mentally plotting out the necessary steps to early acceptance at M.I.T or Harvard.

Of course you never know---she could be flighty, and dumb, and popular. But probably not.

Trailer City

When I moved to the suburbs last year, a lot more changed than the length of my commute. This particular suburb is part of the far-north spread of the urban zone, so there are still significant reminders of the rural life that once was. Born a city dweller, my daughter noticed the difference immediately: driving on the highway one day, there was a residential development on the left and a farm on the right; she immediately remarked, "That side is the world, and the other side is the country."

In my search for every commuter's Holy Grail---a drive of less than 30 minutes in traffic hell---I have traveled many roads in the last 6 months. Lately, I have been trying an alternate route during my morning drive, one that definitely has the "world" (Starbucks, Exxon, 7-Eleven) on the left, with a remnant of "country" on the right: TRAILER CITY.

Notice I did not say Trailer PARK. Most of the trailer parks I am familiar with are like giant parking lots with grass, each trailer assigned to a particular section of the space. Trailer CITY has regular streets, just like my master-planned community. Trailers are neatly aligned to these streets, creating a very grid-like layout for several blocks.

The trailers themselves are in various conditions. Some are the usual dirty white, with metal screen doors and broken-down cars on blocks in the yard. Others have adopted real house "drag:" they are completely clad in brick or wood, with large attached decks and porches, covered carports even. Most of the trailers would be assigned to an in-between status; they have minor signs of a homestead---window boxes or satellite dishes, maybe---but no attempt has been made to even hide the wheels or guts with the typical trailer-skirt.

Because of the timing of my usual drive, I rarely see the citizens of Trailer City. From time to time, I try this route in the evening, where very occasionally I have seen people randomly moving around the homes.

One mild winter evening, I saw a whole family heading over to the Trailer City playground. This playground is not the usual 'safety-first' arrangement found in most city parks and million-dollar backyards: no rubber gravel or woodchips on the ground here, Trailer City kids will hit same the hard-packed red dirt I remember from my youth (should they dare to leap from the top of the rusted monkeybars or tilt-prone swingset found here). The weather was great, twilight still provided enough illumination to play (no lights on this playground, of course), and bathtime was probably still at least an hour away. The kids raced to the swingset, shrieking their child-laughter.

I slowed for a minute, watching, then coasted back to the intersection. Red light, headlight, grocery store, turn lane: back to and through the world again to home.