Carless In L.A.

“If you think nobody cares if you’re alive, try missing a couple of car payments.” -Earl Wilson

That’s a great quote. But what if you don’t have car payments? How can you tell if anybody cares that you’re alive?? Worse yet – what if you don’t have a car? If you don’t have a car in Los Angeles – nobody wants to know if you’re alive. Not because they’re mean; because they simply can’t compute the idea of living without a car. Ergo, you cease to exist.

“Wait, what? You don’t have a car? What’s that mean? But how do you get around? Public what?” At this point if my captive audience doesn’t blatantly walk away, I change the subject just to relieve the panicked look in their eyes. 

I know someone who offered a co-worker a ride home in Hollywood and when she found out he drove an Accord she declined. So what’s worse in this town, taking public transit or driving a car that costs less than $50,000?

I tell you, at this point I would  gladly subject myself to the disgrace of driving a $20,000 Altima if it would mean getting me off the street. No, I’m not homeless. I’m carless. My modes of transportation are: bus, feet (mine, naturally), bumming a ride or not showing up. 

Last week I promised a friend I would attend her one-woman show which she had worked hard at putting on, and I was really excited about it. According to Google Maps it was a 20-minute, 2-bus ride. Being the public transit expert I am, I gave myself one hour and filled my pocket with extra tokens. Just in case. You never know, right? Well, one hour into my journey I was still waiting at the bus stop for the second bus.

First, two “Not In Service” buses went by. Then another bus stopped but was only letting people off, not taking any new riders since it was jammed like a phone booth full of college students. Then a bus finally stopped and picked up the arena-sized crowd that had amassed during this time, turning this bus into a tin of sardines. For 15 minutes I did my best to avoid the unflinching ogle of the guy standing next to me who took every pothole as an excuse to rub up against me. And if you’re asking why I didn’t move, don’t. There wasn’t a free inch on that bus. Which is how I nearly missed my stop. I rang the bell and then tried to squeeze my way to the backdoor, but it was like trying to walk through a non-English speaking brick wall.

I jumped to my freedom, crossed the street, and waited 30 minutes for a bus that promised, like my ex-boyfriend, to come every 10-12 minutes. When I realized that only a time machine could get me to the theater punctually, I let loose a string of curses and caught the next bus back home, missing my friend’s show. 

The worse part about explaining why I didn’t get to her show was trying to make the phrase “I take the bus” sound like a fun decision.