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It's Called a Courtesy Bus


At Mom’s senior park there is a 24-seat courtesy bus. It takes us wherever we need to go on weekdays: doctors, markets, hair appointments, the beach, restaurants. There are usually about 6 riders per day. Mom and I bounce between Dollar Tree and Aldi. LuAnne, 78, is on her way to Bells to look for a bathing suit because she donated all her old ones to Ukraine. Mae, 93, is trying to remember if we’re taking her to the eye doctor or the hearing aid place. Barb, a young 66, who hears nothing and communicates with long skinny gestures, needs wine. And Lew, 75, who can no longer use the local taxi since he demanded to speak only to an American on the phone, is going to Publix to look for a wife.


As we bounce along silently, some of us gazing at the traffic, others squinting at cell phones, LuAnne opines “I’m tired of seeing so many ba-lack people on tv.” The other six caucasians on the bus froze. No one spoke. After what seemed like an appropriate span I said, “LuAnne, you’re canceled.”

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