The Bus Ride
by Marie Delgado Travis
My plane arrived in Puerto Rico on Sunday, September 9, 1979. I remember the day, because there was a hurricane brewing. In fact, I arrived between hurricanes. David and Federico pummeled the island practically back-to-back that year.
On Monday, I was to report to the same company I worked for on my previous attempt to live on the island. I left my parents’ house, wearing a plastic poncho over my business suit. The wind howled and the rain pelted me almost horizontality. But my parents’ phone wasn't working and I had given my word. I couldn't afford to lose the job opportunity for being a “no show.”
As I boarded the bus at about 7 AM, I found it strange that I should be the only passenger. The bus driver scrunched his face, as if commiserating: “Que, going to work in this weather? You must really be poor,” he joked in Spanish.
“No, WE must be poor,” I answered and we both had a good laugh. Over the next forty minutes, our banter helped ease the tension. Driving conditions were dangerous. Stop after stop, not a single soul boarded the bus. When we finally reached the business district of Hato Rey, I left the warmth of the bus reluctantly.
“Cuídate,” the bus driver shouted, urging me to take care.
“Gracias, you too! Stay safe,” I yelled back, bracing against the wind. My umbrella was useless, so I entered the office building soaking wet. Again, I felt eerily alone, except for a security guard who shrugged, staring at me silently. Since he didn't try to stop me, I rode the elevator to the tenth floor.
A notice on the door indicated the offices were closed indefinitely due to the impending hurricane. Employees were instructed to listen to the island’s only English language radio station for word on when the offices would reopen.
“Oh no! How will I ever get home? I worried.
Fortunately, when I emerged from the building, the kind bus driver was still there.
“I had a feeling you'd need me,” he smiled, refusing to take my quarter for the return ride. I had to insist before he took his hand from the coin box, so I could deposit my change.
We traveled back along wet, dark, desolate streets. Neither of us spoke a word on the way back. It wasn’t that poverty had deprived us even of words. I think we both sensed that if either of us uttered a sound, the rain inside the bus would overwhelm us.
MARIE DELGADO TRAVIS is an award-winning author. Visit her web site at
