Vodka Yonic features a rotating cast of women, nonbinary and gender-diverse writers from around the world sharing stories that are alternately humorous, sobering, intellectual, erotic, religious or painfully personal. You never know what you’ll find in this column, but we hope this potent mix of stories encourages conversation.
My car broke down for the second time, leaving my husband stranded on a dark Virginia highway. This was after we’d spent $2,000 to fix the brakes. And now we were facing a $7,000 quote to fix a car that was worth half that. You know that scene in Office Space where they beat the printer mercilessly in a field? If only.
While I would have happily left the car in Virginia, my husband is an enterprising Mr. Fix-It. We had the car shipped home, where it sat in the driveway with all the other things that needed to be fixed. Meanwhile, I took the bus.
I am a perfect candidate for the bus. My home and work are both near stops for WeGo route 56, and I get my bus pass for free — a Metro employee perk. I’m a longtime environmentalist who loves the idea of the bus, but I waffled when it came to actually taking the bus.
I’m reckless with time. My first job required an hourlong commute by car and put me in the habit of waiting to leave until the last second, then dodging traffic like a bat out of hell for the thrill of arriving with one minute to spare. I maintain this terrible habit even now, when my commute is a 10-minute drive down Gallatin Pike.
Leaving at the last minute does not work for the bus. No matter how fast you walk, what time the bus is supposed to be at your spot, or where you see the bus on the app’s “live location,” in Nashville, you don’t schedule the bus, the bus schedules you.
I now leave 20 minutes earlier for work than I used to. At first, I hated this. Not that I did anything special with those 20 minutes — I would normally just stare at my phone. Now I spend that time leisurely walking to the bus stop. When I arrive, I leisurely walk from the stop to work, satisfied with the fact that I am not late. Nothing else in life has made me feel as content, unhurried and unbothered as the bus.
The bus forces me to slow down and plan ahead, but not too much. You’ll get there when you get there. I never thought I lived in a walkable city until I was forced to walk in my city. On my walk, I see trees, I hear birds, I wave to neighbors. I literally stop to smell the roses, because why not? I’m in no hurry. My chains to the rock of time have been torn asunder by the almighty WeGo, and I am a devout apostle.
Still, people are surprised when I say I like riding the bus. The subtext beneath their surprise is the question: Aren’t I afraid?
Because to ride the bus is to rub elbows with strangers. A woman who carries her possessions in a suitcase and shopping bags. A teenager with a skateboard going to school. An old man who repeats the opening lines to “Baby Got Back” in a British accent before devolving into laughter and clearing out the seats around him. A woman gets on, wrinkles her nose, and passes around her personal supply of Febreze because “somebody didn’t wash their ass.”
Public spaces, like the bus or the library, allow us to come as we are, regardless of who we are or how much we can pay. In a public space, we can’t always avoid people or situations that challenge us. Big Tech promised us a frictionless experience of life, forgetting that friction is what makes life worth living. And there is nowhere more full of life than a public space.
One weekend, I needed to run errands. With a car, this task would take two hours. But I was still sans car, and I had the whole Sunday to burn. So I saddled up my backpack and walking shoes and got on the bus. I rode to Turnip Truck. I’d never eaten from the hot bar because I never intended to linger, me and my car with so many things to do. But that day, on foot, I bought a small cup of soup and ate it upstairs while I read a book and people-watched. I put my groceries in my backpack and walked to Five Points, where I refilled my soaps at The Good Fill before wandering into Thunder Moon Collective. Then — ah, what the hell, a coffee at Bongo Java, where I shared a table with two college students gossiping about their friends.
I needed to pick something up on Chapel Avenue, and took a 20-minute stroll through Lockeland Springs, waving to neighbors on their porches. I turned toward Eastland, where I saw the WeGo 4 roll by — which meant there would be another 45 minutes until the next one. I popped into Ugly Mugs for a tea and more reading. I had just about finished my book when it was time to head to the stop and ride home.
Five hours to run errands on one of the more glorious Sundays in recent memory.
My car has since been fixed, but I still visit the bus. We are now old friends. I have my preferred seat and window into the neighborhood, and it’s more crowded with newcomers today than yesterday. I like seeing the new faces. Maybe one day you’ll see mine, from a seat or the street, waving with love from the 56.
Lisa Bubert is a local writer, librarian and Metro worker.
