The Crazy Guy on the Bus

I had a racial confrontation on the bus one time, with a psychotic guy. The bus was crowded that morning, and many people were standing in the aisle. I heard a resonant, authoritative voice, not the driver, at the front. “Move to the back, folks. Move on back.”

I always like it when a passenger takes control of a situation, offers some leadership.

The people standing in the aisle did not move—they never do—and a half dozen more jammed into the aisle at the front.

Once the bus started moving, the resonant, authoritative voice started singing. Ah, I realized now, it’s a crazy person. Leadership, schizophrenia. It’s easy to get them mixed up.

As usual, the bus emptied quite a bit at U Street, and no one had to stand after that. I saw the singer/crazy guy take a seat near the front. Quite handsome, with a beard trimmed short. Maybe 40 years old. African American. He occasional burst out with a tune or talked loudly to everyone in general. Everyone ignored him.

Then he moved back to a seat across the aisle from me. I was reading a magazine. He sat on the edge of the seat, facing me, with his feet in the aisle.

He looked at me. “Let me ask you something,” he said. I looked up at him but didn’t say anything.

“Let me ask you something,” he repeated. “How would you feel about this?”

I still held my magazine open, but I didn’t look back at it. I gave him my attention. He didn’t seem dangerous, but then, I didn’t know how to behave with a schizophrenic. I didn’t want to encourage him in this conversation, but I thought I should show him courtesy. 

I began noticing the people around us. They were all women, watching him and me.

The man continued. “How would you feel if, today, now, in nineteen-ninety, in nineteen, in nineteen-ninety and something, whatever it is, how would you feel if I said to you, ‘You go sit in the back of the bus?’”

At that point I felt I definitely should not ignore him. Should not turn back to my magazine. Although his demeanor was not aggressive, we had a hostile situation here. I didn’t think to check for a weapon. This was nineteen-ninety, nineteen, nineteen-ninety and something, and back then only post offices had people who came in with a weapon and went, well, postal. So, weapon didn't occur to me.

His tone of voice, in fact, was that of a preacher who intones a rhetorical question, such as, “If the Lord came today, would you be ready to meet him?” 

I kept eye contact with the man. He continued his questioning. “I’m asking you how you would feel right now, if I said to you, ‘Go back there. Go to the back of the bus.’?”

The women around us were watching us. On the basis of no evidence whatever, I felt they sympathized with me. I thought they identified with me as a woman, and as a sane person confronted by a crazy person. Even though they were black, they didn’t see me as a white person confronted by a black person. They were curious, though. They wondered what I would do.

Thus, in just a few seconds after he confronted me I had mentally constructed an entire social and psychological environment that was on my side. I now realize this probably makes me as crazy as he was, but it felt right at the time.

I was trapped. I knew I shouldn’t respond, but with no response from me he just kept going.

“How would you feel if I said to you, “You gotta go to the back of the bus’?”

I did consider answering him. Maybe he would feel reassured if I showed a willingness to be open, to discuss the issue rationally. Plus, I wanted him to know I wasn’t snooty. I wanted him to realize that he had chosen to challenge perhaps the most liberal white ever to ride bus 52.  Quite possibly the most liberal person in the universe. Did I say “rationally” a couple sentences ago? OK, so maybe liberal, but like I said, not really thinking too clearly.

I rejected the option of talking to him, knowing at a gut level that engaging him in conversation was a no-win venture.

I thought again about turning  back to my magazine, but I thought that might enrage him. And, weapon or no weapon, I was scared, all the nice on-my-side ladies notwithstanding.

With no response from me, he continued to harangue me, repeating the question in different ways. I just kept keeping eye contact and listening to him. Maybe he didn’t really expect a response, but I felt increasing pressure to do something. Like I said, I was trapped.

I felt the eyes of the other women. Why didn’t they intervene? Weren’t they on my side? Were they enjoying this, actually?

Ultimately, the driver came to my rescue. He called out to the man to come to the front. The man rose immediately and ambled good-naturedly to the seat near the driver, where they had a conversation that I believe had something to do with whether the man had paid his fare or not.

Ambled good-naturedly! Jiminy Crickets! My magazine was practically soaked through with the sweat from my hands.

That 52 bus. Ya gotta love it.