WHEELS by Carlos Parada

Many things can happen when you take the bus at 7:30 in the morning and you pay with 50 cents or "dos coras" as my working countrymen would say. Suddenly you hear a "gabacho" on the radio saying that outside the atmosphere is turning the color of a red ant because of the heat. The air conditioning makes you forget that in a few more minutes everyone will sweating like chickens (actually, I've never seen a chicken sweat), more or less depending on the streets you have to walk in order to arrive wherever...wherever you want to go. Many people are going to work, riding to school, returning home; others don't know where they're going or don't have nyplace to go in the vast territory of the "land of opportunity." Like the thin man with dark circles under his eyes who just got on right now, the one wearing a red-brown plaid shirt and very faded jeans. Downcast, he stops in front of the driver with a lost look and hands him a wrinkled transfer. The driver takes it and tells him "This ticket is for another bus line and it's also expired." The fellow with sparse, stiff hair neither alters his expression nor speaks; he only continues standing there. The bus driver tells him, "This time it's okay, but be more careful." The man walks slowly, dragging his dull military boots, one of which attracts quite of bit of attention because it has a red shoelace-or more accurately, is laced with a long piece of rag that has been ingeniously rolled up. Without anything further, he takes an empty seat.

A couple of pubescent students board the bus. These "chavos" look like any other teenagers. They dress to be seen, like in any part of the world, all odd, some with dread locks, tattoos or bikini. Yes! One young girl of about fourteen just got on like that, attired in a pretty black swimsuit and some rubber sandals. Some students, more hurried, literally have their noses in their textbooks; still others sit on their books, perhaps to gain knowledge through osmosis.

A peculiar individual seated in front reads a computer magazine with concentration, holding it carefully with both hands, his dark glasses not allowing you to see the color of his eyes. His hair is half black and half orange. Nobody cares about it or even pays attention about the appearance of anyone else.

I look outside the window to see an unusual silhouette that holds a piece of cardboard sign, "Jesus was homeless too." The sun's rays have diminished and tired laborers begin to come out of every corner; others hurry to empty their beer cans or carefully wrap them in paper bags in order to board the bus. All this diversity of people, instead of repulsing, fascinates, that in such a compact space, or such a large one can be a city; the complexity is always infinite. I was thinking about this when I was interrupted by an elderly man, thin and wan as the night, seated in the place designated for older people. He was making exaggerated motions with his hands and commented that he was headed to the hospital because he was a terminally ill from AIDS and to be in a program where they tested new medicines on him exchange for a few dollars.

Moments later all is quiet inside the bus. Someone raises an arm and pulls the metal cord that rings a discreet signal indicating that someone wants to get off at the next stop. At the same time it activates a recording in English and Spanish announcing the streets where the bus will stop...and gives the pleasure of hearing your own language.

On one occasion, I was traveling in the direction of downtown and in the rear of the bus, I heard a few Caucasian men launch a series of flattering remarks and innuendos in gringo style at a slender Latino girl. She was seated alone and a young Latino man moved to her side like he was protecting her. The men insulted him and protested his position; at that moment one of them turned around and to his surprise all the other people on the bus, mostly Latinos and African-Americans, stared at them fixedly. It was a type of psychological pressure as well as saying without words to the two young people, " you are not alone; we support you." The scared men got off the bus at the first opportunity they had.

Occasionally you can feel as though you're inside a Hollywood movie when the vehicle of mass transportation approaches the center of the city, with its lakes, bridges, and tall building mirrors reflecting and distorting the images surrounding you like the prejudices that people have. In the end you can experience many things and the people can make you feel a thousand ways, but the only truth is that we are all human beings and no one is superior or inferior to us. "You can be, or not be, all you can achieve through these lands," an ex-bus driver told me-he is now a "vampire," one who works night and studies days for a technical career, sleeping only four hours a day. Other people have two or more jobs in this city that never sleeps.

The majority of those who use city transportation are Latinos looking for the American dream. They have left behind everything familiar, entering an unknown world. They are the new colonists of the 21st century. Yes many things can happen, and you can hear many things when you get on the bus at 7:30 in the morning.