By FRANCIS MALLOY
"The 53 bus will do it," the nice lady from Transit Customer Services said. "You can get on the bus right there at Bernardo, and it'll carry you right to the train depot."
"Oh, happy day!" I shouted. "My car will be in the repair shop for a couple days, and this is going to work out just fine. Thank you so much," I said, happily dropping the phone down on its cradle.
The next morning, standing at the bus stop, waiting for the 53 bus to show up, I glanced nervously at my watch, wondering if maybe 53 had been involved in some mishap. From where I waited, pacing back and forth, I noticed several buses stop at the corner of El Camino Real and Bernardo Avenue, rev up, and smoke on down the street. I glanced at my watch again. Time was flying. Only a short time left to catch my train.
I decided to move, take my chances on El Camino. Hurrying to the corner, I waited this time on a bench next to an elderly lady. "They seem to come in bunches," she said. The lights of an approaching bus bounced through the intersection and slid to a stop in front of us.
I followed the lady onto the bus. "This ain't your ordinary bus," the driver said, cheerily. "This is the 300, and it only stops at Hollenbeck, unless you'd like to go further down El Camino."
"I'll take a chance on Hollenbeck," I said, dropping change in the muzzle of the coin machine. Slumping into a seat, I rode the couple of blocks to Hollenbeck Road.
I glanced at my watch when I leaped from the bus, sprinting, with 15 minutes to catch the train. After about 50 feet, I realized that sprinting wasn't something I was good at anymore. Settling into a medium-fast walk, I traveled several blocks before I saw the traffic on Evelyn Avenue, considerably further than a stone's throw away.
I walked faster, imagining I could hear the train whistle in the distance. Rounding the corner onto Evelyn, I heard the bell on the engine dinging merrily. I crossed Mathilda Avenue. The train slid into view. Traffic streamed down Evelyn, I couldn't cross. I saw a break and stepped off the curb. I took a couple of steps, but the driver of an approaching car had me in his cross hairs, and he speeded up. I jumped back onto the curb.
The train eased out of the station, gliding smoothly along the track. I watched it, shouting obscenities, the good ones that I learned during my army training. The train disappeared. Traffic on Evelyn thinned out; I crossed the idle street.
I entered the depot. The ticket agent was leaning on the counter socializing with a customer. I interrupted, "When is the next train north?"
"In an hour," he said, without looking up.
Back outside, I decided to wait at the bus stop in front of the depot. Maybe bus 53 would come to the rescue and haul me back home. Right away, I saw two buses approaching on Evelyn. Finally, I thought, but they both turned left at the intersection before the depot.
Stepping off the curb, I hit a rock and twisted my ankle. Limping, I crossed to the bus stop on Frances, and there it was: bus 53. It was parked along the curb, dark inside, locked and vacant, no sign of life (the spirit probably already departed for bus heaven).
I hailed a taxi, hobbled into the back, and gave the driver my address. Falling back in the seat, I said, "The demise of 53 affect you any?"
"Huh?"
The driver glanced back, suspiciously, stomped on the gas pedal and said, "Don't know nuthin' about any 53."
Francis Malloy is a Sunnyvale resident.
This article appeared in the Sunnyvale Sun, February 21, 1996.
©1996 Metro Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved.