“I’m not moving this bus until you stop playing that music," the bus driver said to a young Hispanic man last Saturday night.
I was riding the #50 Damen bus up to a performance at Martyrs. In the city, you are used to someone’s cell phone speakers becoming a post-Millennium boom box. Loud music on public transportation is a familiar annoyance, one that I have gotten used to having grown up here. At first, you are startled by the intrusion, but quickly you forget it is even there. Still, it does not change the fact that it is an unnecessary nuisance akin to eating on public transportation. To live in a city is to assault the senses. If it is not the noise, it is the sights. If it is not the sights, it is the smells.
"I’m so sick of punks like you playing that music,” the bus driver said.