text: Lost in my thoughts, I step sleepily from my apartment complex’s steps into the cool early morning mist that has not yet been burned out of the tower blocks looking around me. Turning to my left I stop by my favorite coffee cart just a stone’s throw from my building to get my morning dark roast coffee, boiled eggs, and bagel. I stash the eggs and bagel in my bag for later and head towards my bus stop just a few minutes around the corner. Around me cars are impatiently honking their horns to nudge the sleepier drivers forward. A bus rushes past me momentarily displacing the atmosphere around it into the surrounding pedestrians. The shuffling feet of the other commuters walking towards their destination give a sense of urgency at this vital commuting hour. The rhythm of their movements are interjected with clacking of heels, phones ringing with pre-office discussion, and even some joggers singing softly to themselves. Everyone is on their way to something, somewhere, and anywhere. I love the smell of the faint aroma of dew in planter boxes; it is a moment I can pretend I am not stuck in this sardine tin of a town and imagine being back in the country with my goats. This early shift of the commuters is those of us who try to skip the jams that come if you wait one hour more. Listening to the sounds around me, I narrowly avoid getting run over by a commuter bike and, swiftly following, an electric scooter. Irritated, I yell “Excuse you!!!!” to the scooter. Scooters, the new rodents of the road. They are usually driven by tourists who do not take into consideration the natives, nor do they kindly look up the road laws and regulations. I suppose it is not the scooter’s fault but the vermin navigating them, poorly mind you, around my beloved streets. As I round the corner, I see my bus has not yet arrived. The usual hoard of commuters are all lining up and there are two new faces for this time of day. It is 6:01am; according to the watch I have worn since my early 20s, the bus will be rounding that corner anytime now. I am a few minutes early today; typically I am walking alongside it as it pulls around the corner. Looking up at the cranes, I watch as one of them moves a load of building material from the ground up into the territory of the rich. I have lovingly called the two cranes Niles and Frasier to help ease the loss of my view. About a year ago the windows of my home had a lovely ocean view. I spent many hours in the evenings and weekends watching the ferries, cruise ships, and shipping containers bring their passengers and wares to and from the city. Slowly over the last several months I have watched this peaceful view disappear due to the construction of multimillion dollar companies and their accompanying tower blocks. At least watching the lights in the windows turn off and on throughout the evening does keep me amused when the television offers reruns and misinformed, over-hyped news. Disgustingly, my once quirky and unique city has been gorging itself on the newest technology and souls of the top-performers; a consequence of which has made this city grow uncomfortably full at the waist. So much so that getting onto the commuter bus is a moment of peace and tranquility. Bus 205 flies past me, throwing my hair in front of my face and temporarily blinding me, a warning to hurry towards my stop and claim my place in line to board. The doors of the bus open and the waiting passengers start slowly filing ahead one by one. The typical commuters are swift in swiping their bus passes and filing down to everyone’s not assigned but kind-of-is-assigned seats. We all have our preference and an unwritten code to never sit in someone else’s known spot unless yours has already been taken. At least, this is how I see it. Shifting my weight from my left leg to my right, I observe the three people standing ahead of me waiting to board the bus and ready to scan their passes. I know the first person in line will board swiftly, she has travelled this route with me for the past several months. I am unable to guess her age due to the fact her wrinkles are faint, demonstrating she has known stress but it has not affected her, or she does regular botox treatments. Every day her black hair is pulled into a tight lower bun, highlighting the sharp ridges of her chiseled cheeks and chin. I have learned the hard way not to make eye contact with her. The first and only time I did, her piercing gaze caused the hair on my neck to stand up as if I were in a horror movie staring at my killer. I do envy the expensive, fashionable clothing she wears. Today she is dressed in a crisp, well tailored navy suit with gold and diamond accessories that would cost six months’ of my pay. She departs the bus in the court district. She appears unapproachable. Most likely she works for one of the more questionable law firms. Those who defend the actual guilty who have money to pay to get away with their bad doings. Maybe she lives in the same building as me. I have traveled with her almost every work day for the last several months, but we have never said greetings to one another. That is just how it is in the city, even if you don’t have body language like she does that screams “Do. Not. Talk. To. Me.” Next to scan is a short, slightly hunchbacked elderly man who must be new as I have never seen him here before. He is walking with a limp and holding firmly, white knuckles showing through, onto the railing. He gives a bit of a grunt as he heaves himself to the bus. His eyes are wide as he looks around him quickly, turning his head towards each new movement in his surroundings. Realizing it is his turn to scan his card he fumbles in his jacket pockets. Impatiently, I let out a very audible and annoyed sigh. Rule number one of bus riding etiquette: have your bus card out and ready to scan if you are waiting at the bus stop prior to your bus’ arrival. He finally procures the card from the left breast pocket of his shirt under his fleece jacket and scans the card. I would have given him a little cheer for success if the card didn’t hazard a red warning that there was no money on it. He begins to argue with the bus driver. The third person in line, the teenage boy with an overly large white shirt and ripped jeans that needed washing three months ago, quickly intervenes and scans his card for the man. This covers the man’s charge and then the teen scans his card for himself. I am shocked by the floppy haired teen’s notice of the man’s plight. The teen had been standing, absorbed into his phone with headphones on through the duration of our time in line. My turn finally approaches, I step up and scan my card. It feels nice to be completely off the rambunctious street. Given the early hour, I would not expect it to be this muggy, but the temperature has already started to rise. It is a midsummer morning; the sun has not been awake for more than a couple hours but the humidity is already drenching. Once I scan my card and head down the bus aisle, I spy that there happens to be one aisle seat that is available towards the middle of the bus. This portion of the bus is not too close to the front where people crowd around, not within smelling distance the homeless drunk sleeping in the back, two large steps from the exiting rear door, and is my preferred location. Continuing towards the seat as the beeping of other bus cards are scanned and grow fainter, I hear a deep, gravely voice booming loudly somewhere towards the middle of the bus. I scan the seats realizing this awful and unfriendly tone of voice is coming from the seat I was about to claim. The voice belongs to a man in his mid-fifties dressed in grey slacks, a patterned sweater vest on top of a purple button up shirt. Upon closer inspection the man may be in his 40’s but the unkemptness of his thick and curly hair, the stubble that appeared to be from yesterday’s shave, and bags that could hold his groceries had he been shopping made him appear older than he probably is. As I approach the seat, he continues yelling into his phone with tones I have not heard since my teenage years on the farm with an abusive, drunk father. The man’s face, the color of roasted beets served with a generous helping of chèvre and walnuts, looked as if he would explode at any moment of our bus ride together. As he talks, mists of liquid spew from his mouth towards the phone. I pause next to the empty seat, gripping the railings as the bus lurches forward, the sudden movement almost knocking the inattentive teen boy to the ground. The unpleasant man, still on the phone, noticed I was next to him, but did not stop the stream of unpleasantness and unkind words into the innocent phone. I feel sympathy for the person on the opposite side of that device as the lecture continues. He is in the middle of shouting to the recipient “... the most incompetent simpleton that I have ever had the displeasure to work with...” when he pauses as if seeing me for the first time. Abruptly, he hangs up the call. His angry features still had me questioning whether I should just stand this time. During my thoughts, the man interrupts sharply, “Are you sitting or going to continue to be a nuisance?” His loud voice carries and alerts everyone of his displeasure. With this one phrase, I’m back on the farm again and he is now my father. Swiftly as a chunky cat I plop into my seat, accidentally bumping his right elbow as I did. Muttering some apology towards him, he shoots me a glare. Once I had finally settled, the bus’ movements rocked us to and fro, inconsistently bumping us against one another. As we made our way down the road to the next traffic light, the man pulled out a tablet and set his attention to it. Glancing down towards his bag resting firmly between his feet, I see his name badge from the most elite hospital in the area. Under his name, it had the title of “Physician”. Discovering this bit of information made me pity his patients. Scanning his bag further, there was also a stethoscope, pens, brown bag with his lunch possibly, some other medical magazines, and a stuffed teddy bear. Detaching my eyes from his personal belongings, I think to myself about how he behaved and how his bedside manner must leave much to be desired. It brought to mind the experience I had just over a year ago with a physician at my primary clinic. She was abrupt, unempathetic, and gruff, much like this man I am currently sitting next to. I went to my physician seeking help in regards to mental health; I was feeling depressed and was unable to snap out of it. Moving to a new city, the abusive childhood to deal with, and a job I was unhappy in had really worn on me. I went to her for help. All she wanted to do was give me pills, not help the deeper issue. When I told her I did not want to solve the problem with medications, she laughed and asked me “Then how do you expect me to help you?” It was then I realized that you can not expect your physician to assist you in actual life if they could not throw a pill at it. Absentmindedly my eyes had wandered back to the direction of his bag; he had noticed and looked at me with his startling intense blue eyes. I felt my face flush, immediately feeling embarrassed for being nosy and staring. In the second it took me to turn away towards the opposite side of the bus, I saw him face towards the window on his left, his body structure went from rigid into a relaxed, slumped state. I started to shift in my seat and nibble at my nails; I didn’t know what to do with this sudden change in this man I a moment ago thought was the scum of the earth. His demeanor changed and surprised me. Abruptly breaking the silence he stated, “Two of my patients are dying.” He let this statement settle into the air like an uncovered sneeze. I stared into my lap not knowing what to say; I wasn’t sure the wild beast I had seen a moment ago was truly retreating. Shocked to silence, I said nothing but did turn my head towards him slightly. He slowly looked away from the window towards me. What I saw this time were the eyes of a warm, welcoming face with a tortured undertone. These current eyes belonged to a broken, desperate man; not the man that I had seen just a few minutes ago when I walked down that bus aisle to this seat. Breaking the silence with a volcanic size level of words, he went on to explain to me how he had been doing everything he could for two of his patients to get into a research study at the hospital. He was fairly sure this study would save their lives, or at least give them 5 - 15 years. This study had already been shown to decrease cancer at a much greater rate than the conventional methods that were currently approved by the FDA. He started going over the minute details of the study and lost me at stating T-Cells and Monoclonal anti- something or the other. I felt my eyes become hazy, glassy, and my brain started to hurt. I kept records at a small start up in town; I knew nothing about healthcare. Science was never my strength; it disappointed my father greatly, as he had hoped I would have been a doctor. The first time we dissected anything, I lost my breakfast and was unable to sit in the cafeteria at lunch time because of the smell of the food. The doctor kept talking to me about this study and how it helps people, but all I can honestly think about was how disappointed my family, specifically father, was in me because I never amounted to their idea of who I should have been. Graciously, he realized at some point that I had glazed over and my thoughts were elsewhere, and he redirected to who he was talking to on the phone. Upon mentioning the phone call again, his eyes caught on fire and his temple grew a new vein. I saw this reaction from a different perspective this time. He was just angry on behalf of the patient’s he mentioned earlier, but that still didn’t explain the phone call. Sure, he had two patients who would benefit from this study, but I still failed to see how this merited abusing someone over the phone. As if reading my mind, he explained the phone call was with the research coordinator at his hospital, who apparently didn’t submit the paperwork properly to the board of directors who chose candidates. Due to this research coordinator’s actions, or lack thereof, the doctor was not able to get these patients in the study. This doctor now has to go explain to the patients and their family members that they are not being entered into the study. He has to go explain to them that their last hope is lost. “This womanizer’s disorganization and selfish ambitions have cost these two people and their families those extra years together,” the doctor explains, “this sad excuse for a manager was too busy flirting with the female staff.” This passionate doctor had put in all the necessary paperwork weeks in advance, had called the research coordinator, and had phoned, met with, and emailed him weekly at first. Then he moved to daily calls as the study’s closing date was soon upon them. “The Lout was more interested in pleasing his little member than taking care of important members of someone’s family,” the doctor spoke as if he was spitting in the coordinator’s general direction. The bus stopped; realizing it was the stop for the hospital, the doctor excused himself. He looked back at me with a smile that felt like a hug, waved, and told me to have a good day, leaving me there speechless. My first impression of him changed completely; he cared so passionately and deeply for those patients that he would burden their sorrow and anger on his own shoulders for them. As I watched him step down onto the sidewalk, I realized he would carry the sorrow with him until the day he passed. He was not like I was imagining when I first walked onto that bus and heard him speaking angrily. He was protective, an advocate, and a doctor I would want my loved one to have in the darkest of days. The bus jolted forward again. The unstable teen asked if he could sit next to me as he haphazardly was already falling over me towards the window seat the doctor had just vacated. Adjusting ourselves, the teen leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. This left me with my own thoughts for the duration of my trip. My uncle had just finished his chemo treatment at an adjoining hospital. An idea occurred; maybe I should research the physician I sat with and have my uncle see him instead. I laughed quietly to myself, shaking my head in disbelief at the change of perspective I had after this man opened up and shared a snippet of what he was dealing with in his life.