Alex

I sat down on the metal mesh bench at the bus stop. I was going into the city to Sylvia Rivera Legal Group, a non-profit that helps lower income trans people get their names changed. The bus was not going to be here for another twenty minutes. I was ok with waiting; the weather was nice.

A silver Nissan Altima came to a stop at the red light. The driver rolled down the tinted window.

“Are you waiting for the 25?” “Yes.” “It’s back there,” he said pointing down the road.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Hablas Esponal?” he asked. “Nyet,” I replied using the Russian word for no. “Are you Hispanic?” “No,” “You look Hispanic.”

I shrugged.

He turned away to look ahead at the road. He then turned back around to look at me. “How far down are you going?”

“To the train station.”

“I’ll take you there.”

“Are you going all the way there?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m a bus driver,” he said. He was, he had the Beeline bus driver symbol embroidered on his sweater.

I got into his car.

He looked at me. “You’re not Hispanic?’ he asked yet again.

“Nope.”

“You look Hispanic.”

“No one has ever told me that.”

The light turned green and he began to drive. “Where do you live?”.

“Right there,” I said gesturing to Hill House. “How long have you been a bus driver?”

“Six years.”

“Do you like it?” We turned onto Kimball Avenue. “It’s hard,” he said, “sometimes the people can be really difficult.” “Do you work?” he asked. “I’m a student,” I replied, “but I work too.” “What do you do?” he asked. “I have three jobs, I work as someone’s assistant, I babysit and I tutor Yiddish,” I said. “So everything,” he said looking at me with a smile as we drove under the overpass.

We talked about a lot of things while we drove down Kimball. What Yiddish is, other stuff, what classes I’m taking, that I’m taking dance classes, and that he also dances.

We passed the corner of Kimball and Miles Square Road. He played some Brazilian music he likes to dance to. I shimmy danced in my seat. I felt sexy. He played another song. “Let me see you dance,” he said. I shimmied.

We passed the corner of Kimball and Yonkers Avenue I asked him where he’s from. “The Dominican Republic. That’s why I have this light accent,” He said. He looked at me with a pleased smile.

We turned onto Wakefield Avenue. We talked about the fact that I’m taking a Russian Language class and I don’t know why I’m doing it. He asked me “How old are you?” I said “20.” I asked him “How old are you.” He said “Guess.” I said “I don’t know, I’m terrible at guessing people’s age… I’m terrible at guessing people’s age… 40?” “Do I look that old?” he asked, “most people say I look younger, around 28 years old.” He inspected the lower half of his face in the mirror. “I’m 37, you were close,” he said. “Sorry, as I said, I’m terrible at guessing people’s age,” I told him. “It’s ok,” he said with a smile.

We came to McLean Avenue. We talked about the fact that Yonkers is a relaxed place to live compared to the Bronx, where he lived until two months ago. He now sleeps a lot. He told me that he lives right near Hill House at 1180 Midland Avenue.

We drove past the point where McLean becomes E 240th St. Since we talked about sleep, we started talking about what we do at night. I told him that I’m terrified of going to clubs.

We stopped at a red light right next to the Bar at the intersection where E 240th St. becomes Nereid Avenue. We talked about our favorite foods. I said that “I eat everything.” And then I added, “but I’m a vegetarian.”

“So that’s not everything.”

“Yeah that’s not everything,” and laughed. “What do you like to eat?”

“Everything,” he said, “I eat meat. Well not everything,” he said, “but almost everything.” I nodded in understanding.

We drove over the Bronx River Parkway. He asked “Would you like to go out?” I thought he asked if I like to go out in general, so I said yes. So he asked, “Do you want to give me your number?”

“Oh, no.”

“Should I give you mine?”

“No.”

I told him “well I’m not ready for this sort of thing.”

“Why not?”

“I’m just not ready,” I said. There was a pause. “Well… I’m trans.”

“I know,” he said.

“You’ve never been with anyone?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Why?”

I shrugged. “I grew up Chassidic… you know what that is?… Hasidic? … just like the Amish people.”

“Oh, you mean you had those,” he said as he gestured with his hand making a line on the side of his head.

I nodded. I didn’t say that I’m afraid that I’ll never find someone who I like who likes me back.

I told him that “I sometimes eat meat, I’m a cheating vegetarian.” He asked “Is that what they call it?” I said “I don’t know I made it up.” I smiled.

We we’re a block away from the train station.

He held out his right hand. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Allie,” I said. “Alex,” he said. I shook his hand. “Your hand is so soft,” he said. “Thank you,” I said. He caressed my throat. “You look really pretty,” he said. “Thank you,” I said. “How long have you been trans?” he asked. “Well… I came out two months ago… yeah two months ago,” I said.

He drove past the train station.

“Well, in a few months you’ll look amazing,” he said. “I’m just gonna drive to the train,” he said. “You’re sure you don’t want to kiss?” he asked. I nodded. “You really never kissed anyone?” “No,” I said. He drove into a side street away from the train. He needed to back out because there was a stalled tractor trailer in the street. He drove into another side street. I wondered when the time for me to try to jump out of the car would be.

He asked where I was going. I said “I’m going into the city to see a lawyer.” “Where exactly in the city.” “Into the city…,” I said, “Manhattan.” He asked “What type of men do you like?” I told him “I don’t know… I like women.” He looked at me surprised “Really?” I said “Yeah, I’m bisexual.”

We probably talked about other things but I don’t remember what they were.

At the end of the street he decided to head back to the train. He asked me if he should drive back to the Nereid Avenue Subway Station or if he should just take me to the next station, the 233rd St. Station. I said “233 St.” When we were driving under the tracks I asked him “How many people have you been with?”

“I’ve been with two trans.” “Are you planning on getting surgery?”

“Yes.”

“Breast surgery and down there surgery?” he asked pointing.

“Not breast surgery, but the other one.”

“You don’t want to use it?”

“No.”

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He said “One trans I dated she told me that it’s a long process, therapy, they need to make sure that you really want to do it.”

We arrived at the 233rd St. station. He asked “Do you jerk off?”

“Yes.”

He stopped the car. I took off my seatbelt, and gathered my things. “Thank you so much,” I said.

“Can we kiss?”

“On the cheek,”

He kissed me on the cheek.

I got out of the car. With a spring in my step I ran up the steps to the train.

On the train, I regretted not kissing him because I have no clue how the inside of someone’s mouth tastes like.