14 April, 1999

Mean Guy, Nice Guy

I'm still feeling shaky, knees knocking, stomach upset from the events of this morning.

A little bit of background: I am a fundamentally honest and rule-abiding person. I pay my fines without argument at the video store, I recycle, I pick up trash from the seats on the Metro, I pay my taxes (well, don't ask me why I still haven't filed those on April 14th AGAIN. Same scenario as last spring -- where did the time go?). I always pay my bus fare and usually, when I have checked my wallet ahead of time and know that I do not have change, I do not board.

Today I was rushing to catch the bus, I had just scooted down the road to the stop and was sitting there catching my breath when it pulled up. I got up, and collapsed in the seat and pulled my wallet out. People do this all the time, get on first and pay after so they don't slow the bus down.

I zip open the change compartment, confident that I have plenty of change -- after all I just got back from a business trip and I kept collecting quarters every time I had to break a twenty for lunch. Much to my dismay I discovered only a handful of pennies and a nickel.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I peeked into the bill-fold. Five twenties that I took out of the bank last night when we were waiting in line at the drive-in at Wendy's. I had no change and no dollar bills. In desperation I popped open my backpack -- often when in a hurry I drop change into my bag or into my pockets. By now the bus was almost all the way to the Metro and I still had not paid my fare. I continued searching through my bag when the conductor turned to me and in a scathing voice says "You need to put 85 cents in here, miss."

"I know, I answered. I'm short and I'm still looking for --"

"Why didn't you tell me sooner? How come you got on here if you didn't have any change?"

Through clenched teeth I asnwered, "I thought I had a dollar."

He eyed me with anger and disdain, "How much you got? Put it all in here."

Feeling like a heel I started pushing the pennies into the box. Beep. Beep. Beep. "Eighteen cents!? All you got is eighteen cents!"

The tears formed in my eyes. My voice choked up with shame and embarrasment. Here I was with one hundred dollars in cash in my pocket but I couldn't pay my bus fare. Crying like a small child now, in a small voice, I offered to get change at the Metro.

Fuming now, the bus driver lectured me, "When you get there, you go buy your farecard and you come out to the next bus and put that change right here, in this box."

Unable to stop the flood of water pouring down my cheeks I nodded and mumbled a pathetic, "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry."

I turned away, looking out the window, stricken with disbelief. This is just not like me, how could I not have the fare?

Then a gentle, Southern-accented voice came from behind me. "Excuse me miss, how much do you need?"

A sandy-haired gentleman in workman's boots, plaid shirt, jeans and windbreaker stood before me.

"I only had eighteen cents," I answered mournfully.

He sighed as he went through his pockets and nodded, "Well I can give you a dollar. I know what it's like to be without."

Scarlet-faced now, I thanked him profusely and slid the dollar into the machine. I was so upset that I forgot I could have offered him a twenty for change.

So, thanks to the generosity of a stranger, I was able to avoid the wrath of the bus driver, but now I feel terrible that I didn't offer him the twenty.

I feel like a fraud too, because I had plenty of money, just not in the right denomination.

It's a beautiful day outside, but I am sitting here in my office, cowering away with the door shut. Pathetic, yes. But I can't seem to recover from the shock of the out and out meanness of that bus driver and my own poor behavior in response to the kindness of that man.