When I graduated college in spring 2009, I had two
humanities degrees and a plan. Or, what my idealistic 22-year-old self thought
was a plan. My plan was to do a series of internships in art museums and then
head to grad school. I thought that I wanted to work in a museum someday, and
that dream almost certainly could not be accomplished without a master’s degree
– and admission to grad school almost certainly could not be accomplished
without some internships on the old resume.
In the great scheme of things, I was already behind. Like
many young undergrads, I had switched majors a number of times. I started off
as the ultimate cliché: a psychology major. One psychology class later and I
found that it wasn’t as interesting as I thought it would be. I switched to
English, briefly to English education, and then back to English with an art
history minor. In the second semester of my junior year, I realized that if I
worked my tail off, I could promote my art history minor to a major.
If I’d had my act together and had realized earlier on that
I wanted to major in art history, I could’ve been doing summer internships all
along. But as it was, I didn’t figure it out until it was too late to get an
internship during the summer after my junior year. Therefore, I had to do these
internships in the months following my graduation: the Denver Art Museum in the
summer, the New Orleans Museum of Art in the fall, and the Minneapolis
Institute of Arts in the spring.
First stop: Denver.
Going in, I knew that these internships would be unpaid. “No
problem!” I thought. I was staying with my aunt and uncle in Denver, so I
wouldn’t have to worry about rent. As long as I could find money for food, gas,
and bus fare, I’d be set. I’d just get a part-time job, which would be easy as
pie. After all, I’d never had any trouble finding a job before.
I was completely wrong. The economy had taken a nose-dive,
and it took me almost a month (not to mention many blows to my ego) to get a
job.
Job or no job, I still had to get to my unpaid
20-hour-a-week internship at the Denver Art Museum. My aunt and uncle lived a
good thirty minutes away from the museum, so I wouldn’t be able to walk or bike
there. The museum was in downtown Denver, and parking there was out of the
question. The museum didn’t offer any kind of parking area for interns, so if I
was going to drive myself there every day, I’d have to pay something like eight
dollars a day to park in a ramp. When your income is zero dollars a day, eight
dollars a day just to park is an absolute travesty.
That left the bus.
I was no stranger to buses. I had ridden the school bus
during my entire elementary and high school tenure. I had taken a bus trip to
Chicago with the high school band. I had gone to Minneapolis with the UMM concert
band on a Greyhound. Buses didn’t scare me.
However, public transportation was a whole new beast. My
first stop was the local grocery store – that’s where you could buy a book of
bus passes. Though I was technically no longer a student, my UMM student ID was
still fresh – after all, I had graduated less than a month ago. So I went ahead
and bought the student bus passes: $18 for thirty bus passes. $18 for fifteen
trips into Denver – one ticket there, one ticket back. It was certainly cheaper
than paying for gas and parking, but in my state of under-employment, $18 sure
seemed like a lot.
There was a park-and-ride just a few minutes away from my
aunt and uncle’s house, so I’d drive my Mercury Sable over the Walmart parking
lot every morning to meet the bus. I was supposed to be at the museum by 9, so
I’d catch the 8:15 bus, ride it downtown, take the 16th street mall
streetcar, and scurry over a few blocks to the museum offices. No problem.
I rode that bus from the very beginning of June until I left
Denver at the end of August. And let me tell you: the people watching was
fantastic. As you might expect, I became familiar with many of the bus
regulars. I got to know the morning bus driver, who was the happiest guy I
think I’ve ever met. There were these two mustachioed sisters who rode right up
at the front, and the warmer the weather was, the worse they smelled. My
favorite bus regular was Stuck in the 90s Girl: she got on the bus shortly
after I did every morning, and she looked as though she’d stepped right out of
1995. Every day, she had on a different 90s outfit: Mudd jeans, crop tops,
platform sneakers, chokers, you name it. I always looked forward to seeing what
90s flashback outfit she’d be sporting.
As a regular myself, I tried to be as inconspicuous as
possible. I never boarded the bus without my trusty iPod – that summer was the
summer Michael Jackson died, so I spent a great deal of my bus time listening
to Michael Jackson. (I’m not kidding when I say that “Man in the Mirror” was
the soundtrack to my summer.)
That iPod was a lifesaver. Those little white earbuds are
the international signal for “don’t talk to me,” and that’s exactly the message
I wanted to send on the public bus. And 99% of the time, it worked like a
charm. However, not all methods are foolproof. I was huddled in my seat one
morning, listening to “The Hounds of Spring” (you mean you don’t listen to
classical music on the bus?), when a middle-aged balding man plopped down next
to me. I did my darndest to ignore him, but he began talking to me –
conveniently disregarding my earbuds and my less-than-friendly glances. I
finally caved and removed the earbuds, only to be treated to a long story about
how this particular gentleman – though born in the United States – had lived in
the Soviet Union for most of his life, and if I ever needed anything translated
into Russian, please give him a call. I think I still have his business card.
Riding the bus was never scary: just weird. When I rode the
bus home late at night after staying in the city to see RENT, I was surrounded by angry drunk people. That was the same
night I found a chunk of hair at my feet.
I rode the bus all summer with few incidents. There was one
time with the afternoon bus driver was not the regular guy, and when I handed
him my student bus pass, he exploded at me. “This is a STUDENT pass! WHAT DO
YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING???!” he screamed. Turns out that Denver student bus
passes are meant for HIGH SCHOOL students. Oops.
Of course I took a picture. |
The other bus disaster came on my very first day of work at
a fireworks stand. At the end of June, I had finally gotten hired to work at a
fireworks shop through the Fourth of July. I had to work at the museum that
morning, so I took the bus home as per usual. I would make it back to my car in
the Walmart parking lot with plenty of time to drive over to the fireworks
stand. However, the bus picked that very day to break down. The driver lowered
the wheelchair ramp to let somebody off the bus… but the wheelchair ramp would
not go back up. I sat and watched the minutes tick by with increasing panic. I
absolutely COULD NOT be late to my first day of work. I broke into a nervous
sweat after fifteen minutes of no progress, and I thought I might cry when the
bus driver announced that a substitute bus would be there to pick us up… in an
hour.
Needless to say, I was super late for my first day, and I
groveled at the feet of my new boss. Thankfully, she was all too familiar with
public transit, so she cut me a considerable amount of slack.
Moving away from Denver marked the end of my public transit
days. I wasn’t too sad to see them go – there were a lot of things I wouldn’t
miss about it, the ripe public transit smell being the first thing that comes
to mind. However, I do find myself missing the people watching as well as that
nice hour or so to sit and read or listen to music.
But I don’t miss it enough to hop back on the bus.
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