BUSted

The situation has not improved. My morning commute is at times an Orwellian deathmarch of lines, scans, and randomized squad patrols. More efficient, they said. Faster, they promised. Better enforcement, they asserted. BUT AT WHAT COST? The long lines to get on the bus have been replaced by long lines for ticket machines located three feet from the traffic whizzing by. Once you have your ticket, you stand in the frozen mob waiting for the next bus, jockeying for position. People who have paid first and waited the longest end up getting on the bus last, as they are pushed back from the curb by the swell of human traffic coming off the ticket machines. From the line, to the mob, to the mobby line that forms at each black door to the bus. Every day, it is a sad day to be elderly, disabled, or the guardian of a child if you wish to ride the bus. Hold on to your tickets. You will need your paper tickets. You no longer scan your metrocard onto the bus and be done with it, each person is issued a paper receipt for each trip. More efficient, they said. How, we screamed.

Hold on to your tickets. Because without warning, the bus stops and the doors open. People who try to get off are met by two enforcement guards asking to see tickets. No ticket? $100 fine. Then they come onto the bus. "Please have your receipts ready." They repeat. More efficient, they said, as traffic whizzes by. You hold up your ticket, they read the time and the date and the bus route. One woman desperately hunts through her many wet pockets as the agent stands in front of her with a neutral expression. "I know I have it," she says nervously as many eyes fall upon her. The bus idles, indifferent. "It must have fallen out of my pocket!" she cries, looking at those around her. Their eyes dart to the floor. There is nothing any of us can do for her. She may be lying, she may not be. It makes no difference. "Please come with me," the agent says, and walks off the bus. Doomed, the woman slinks off the bus as the doors hiss shut behind her.

Worst is the MTA agent who is all smiles every morning. "Hello! Please have your receipts ready! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" he repeats as he checks each ticket. When finished, if he is without prey, he titters; "Have a great day, everyone!" Then he goes home and skullfucks a stray kitten.

I didn't have a ticket once. The machine was broken at my stop and a group of us were instructed to get on the bus by the agent there. When I got off 30 minutes later, far away from the broken machine, I was confronted by an agent at my departure stop. "Why don't you have a ticket?" he asked, holding my Pennsylvania driver's license. Checking my fury, I repeated again that the machine at my origin stop was broken, and that I was instructed to get on the bus along with dozens of others. He holds my arm, all 5'8" of him clad in an MTA windbreaker and dangling faux sheriff badge, and asks the busdriver if this is true. It was. He handed me my license and let go of my arm.

"You need a receipt from now on," he said.

More efficient, they said.