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The Municipal Transit bus glides up to the curb and heaves a melancholy sigh. An old woman with a walker waits at the stop. The doors open, the wheelchair lift, with an annoyed whine, sticks out its iron tongue and settles to the ground. The old woman shuffles onto it. She holds onto the hand support. The lift lifts her onto the floor level of the bus. "Thank you, driver," she says and shuffles toward a seat. "Transfer?" says the driver. "Pass?" " I'm so sorry." The old woman takes her purse out of her walker's wire basket and her wallet out of her purse and her senior pass out of her wallet. "Okay," says the driver. "Do you go to Whistler Street?" "Yes ma'am." "Can you tell me when we get to Whistler Street?" "Yes ma'am." The old woman shuffles to the seat across from the driver. She puts her purse in her lap and folds her walker. " My daughter lives on Whistler Street." The bus lurches forward. "Driver? Driver?" "Yes ma'am?" "Can you tell me when we get to Whistler Street?" "Yes ma'am." "My daughter has three children," she says. "I have five grandchildren, three from this daughter and two from my other daughter. My other daughter lives in Topeka. This daughter lives on Whistler Street." The driver keeps a steady hand on the wheel. "I'm going to look after my three grandchildren while my daughter goes to get her hair done. I look after my grandchildren whenever my daughter goes to get her hair done. Every time she gets her hair done, it looks just the same after as it did before. I don't think my daughter is really going to get her hair done." The bus heaves a melancholy sigh and comes to rest. "Whistler Street." says the driver.
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