Yesterday, I stood for forty-five minutes on the corner of 9th and Nicollet, waiting for the number nine bus to arrive and take me home. It was cold and uncomfortable standing all that time, sometimes leaning against the stone building. It was, in looking back, a bit of immersion in reality. A chance opportunity to be real.
The elderly white woman next to me repeatedly stepped forward into the middle of the sidewalk. She looked down the street to see if the bus was approaching. When I tried to tell her it was still over 15 minutes away, she shook her head and pointed to her ears. I smiled and nodded.
There was a flurry of activity off to my left and a couple of young black men quickly hurried around the corner up Nicollet. Suddenly there was a chorus of angry voices. I couldn’t understand a word, but the loud shouting continued for a long time. I resisted the urge to walk to the corner and see what was happening. I was afraid.
A white woman huddled against the building to my right, clutching a pair of Yaktrax in one hand. Her stocking cap was pulled over her forehead down to her glasses. She had on a mask up to her glasses. I would not recognize her if I ever saw her again. She was hunched up quietly.
Trucks came and went, taxis dropped off people, individuals shouted across the street to someone.
A middle-aged black man and I joined in joking about the long wait for the bus. He kept dancing around on the sidewalk between the building and the curb. He had to pee he said, and was resisting going a little way up the sidewalk to get relief. He joked about not wanting to wet himself and we both laughed. He pulled a brown bag out of his satchel and took a drink. We kept up our exchange until the bus arrived.
My bus finally showed up and I gingerly stepped onto the ice in the gutter, not wanting to slip as I got on the bus. I scanned my card and found a seat, surrounded by a cluster of people I did not recognize and would likely not see again.
This has been my real world on a Tuesday morning.