I miss the Red Apple. In the ’80s and ’90s their corroded, tomato-red vehicles were everywhere, spitting out noxious fumes as they rambled up and down Washington Street. A total lack of amenities, such as air conditioning or heat, made riding in these battered behemoths during the dog days of summer or the dead of winter an exercise in human conditioning and perseverance. To me, however, they were things of brutal beauty – like gnarled tree stumps or punch-drunk hockey thugs.
But then the new millennium came and out went the Red Apple – consumed by the Academy Bus Company. The plodding red machines disappeared like dinosaurs, replaced by sleeker, newer, metallic-white beasts tinted with a snappy, above-the-ground-pool chlorinated blue that promised smooth rides and climate control comfort. But any gains in interior ease were lost by a reduction in the number of rides offered and an increased fare. As Hoboken’s population swelled, and lines grew longer at designated stops each morning, murmurs of complaints could be heard on the anxious lips of Manhattan-bound workers – even the occasional open-mouthed curse – when the bus doors would open and one would be greeted by a sea of crammed commuters.
And then NJ Transit stepped in and flexed its muscles. They had always been there, actually. Before the dawn of Britney Spears, the “Rolls Royce” of mass transit was the total antithesis of Red Apple. Even their riders were different. They generally dressed better, smelled nicer, went to better schools, and had higher-paying jobs than the rough-housed denizens of the Red Apple. NJ Transit patrons would never cling to a crisp dollar bill like grim death, as we Apple riders did, hoping beyond hope that the money would slip flawlessly into the mangled counter.
No, NJ Transit riders sported fancy monthly passes, badges of elitism that they kept encased in plastic and flashed to drivers with the lethargic panache of a debutante strolling into her ball.
When the Apple vanished, loyal riders like myself switched, albeit reluctantly, to the still less expensive Academy. To me, riding cheaper transit was a badge of honor, a chance to claim an identity, to rebel against capitalism, to support the “old ways.” Hoboken was changing before my eyes. New construction was gobbling up the once proud decrepit waterfront; garbage-strewn lots now sported spanking new condos, and where homeless degenerates once drank joyfully in parks, wholesome families now played.
But I fought the urge to upgrade to NJ Transit, and continued my quest to find crisp bills that I would proudly shove into the Academy’s coffers.
And then one day the Academy busses sported a second logo – the enemy’s colors of purple, orange, and blue. NJ Transit had taken over operations in Hoboken, employing the Academy’s drivers under their monopolistic umbrella. With the takeover came even less frequent rides, longer lines, more cursing, and steady fare hikes from $1.85 to $2.10 then $2.30. I never had the correct change, but I would not, could not, bring myself to get a pass. That to me was total surrender.
Instead I fought by forfeiting an extra nickel, dime, or sometimes even a quarter to the hungry counter. Friends and family beseeched me to carry the correct change in abundant supply, but I stubbornly refused. I continued to pay more, in a convoluted, passive aggressive stance against the bus line.
And then, one day, as I boarded the bus, I dug into my wallet and found a lone five-dollar bill.
I looked at it and then the driver, “I only have a five,” I said.
“See if anyone will give you change,” he answered.
I scanned the riders, people who every day I shared 20 to 30 minutes of silence with, people who, like me, buried their heads into papers or books and listened to headsets to pass the monotony of their journeys. I held the five out, pleading, “Anyone have change?”
The silence was enveloping, the furtive glances angry and impatient. “I guess not,” I said to the driver. “What should I do?”
He shrugged his shoulders, his face ambivalent, “Just go sit down,” he said, “and pay extra next time.”
I felt tears well in my eyes, my throat constricted. “Thank you,” I blurted. “Thank you very much.”
I sat down that day filled with renewed hope for the future, filled with a sense of camaraderie, that the world still held compassion, sensitivity, and human understanding.
As I left the bus I turned and smiled at the driver. “Really,” I said. “Thanks so much.”
He looked back at me and replied, “For what?”
– John McCaffrey