What happens after we die – A discussion on a bus.

Persephone Johnson

Some say the afterworld is like riding the bus. Others say it is like riding the subway. Still others say it is like riding the trolley with your head out the window. To keep things simple the afterworld is like riding the bus. If you have been good you will ride with the whole world singing in perfect harmony. If you have been bad you will sit next to befuddled people leaving foul puddles.

What is sweeter than getting a good bus driver? A nerveless lunatic who can take everything the world hurls at her. Bikes, cars, godforsaken pedestrians. Bus drivers carry that most precious of cargo, bus riders. Us transfer farers, us straightline swimmers and bucket seat clowns, we need the most skilled couriers available.

And we need a new saint. I nominate the lady who drives the Damen Avenue bus. She still wears that taut bus driver cravat and crisp shirt. She says hi and bye and talks on the phone while expertly dominating the rush hour slog. At the end of my journey I make sure to say, "Thanks for the ride." She replies, "Thanks for riding with me baby." A great driver and a shameless flirt, what else does a saint need to be?

But what about what happens after we die? The answer maybe here on the Milwaukee Avenue bus. I eavesdrop on two farm girls turned hipster chicks giving babies scary smiles while talking about romantic adventures in snow caves. I believe they have not stopped talking since early last year. If they know what happens after we die they do not share. Although I do learn about their love of Peter who has these amazing dogs. And how it is acceptable to use 'classic' snowboarding equipment. As long as it was cool to begin with.

Convicts riding to the court house on the Chicago Avenue bus seem a good bet to teach us about the post mortem. But all I hear are numbers exchanged, perhaps it is secret prison code. Things like, "Six big took me two three." Convicts on the bus are the loudest type rider and are always in the back. When they see their cousin enter up front they yell, "Yo Marvin where that playa Tim at?" Marvin repeats, "yeah" until such time as he arrives in the back. Then they exchange the secret prison forearm greeting.

After you die you must first ride on a bus. It will change night from day. The placards above you will be from the folks who put poetry in public places. They have used typical bus ads as their subjects. Like:

Baby means life
Abortion means strife
Avoid Satan's knife
And make heaven rife.

Or:

A diploma's as good as high school
Bad aroma a G.E.D cleans off a fool
Also keeps you cool
so you do unspool
Health, Wealth and Wise
This is what a G.E.D buys.

At the six way intersection, clogged and delirious we hit our nadir. People fidget, put on headphones, annoy their siblings, talk on cell phones. Is this where we go posthumously? Shades riding in a box with other shades, flickering senescence stuck in traffic. We examine the exclamations of dead love carved into the airless vent screen. Roman and Mary were lovers. Later additions show Mary learned of Roman's bad ways, took nail scissors and scratched him from memory.

Then it starts moving again. The day is nice, the windows are open and we get a breeze. Sun chases us through trees waving in the warm wind. A serenity falls on us. Outside seethes the inferno of honking cars, predatory pedestrians and homeless pets. Inside the mortal coil no longer reaches us with its pain. We bounce rhythmically. A small girl beams up to her mommy's beatific face and says, "I need to pee."

On the Division Avenue bus all the conditions are ripe for an epiphany as to what awaits when the old ticker clicks its last. Mixed together are angry ghetto urchins, uptight office workers, scowling elderly, hyperactive children, confused drifters and one very impatient bus driver. We hurl around cars, cut off trucks, perform rolling stops then hit an old metal bridge with a tremendous bounce.

And there it is for that one moment. Everyone on the bus is airborne, weightless, deeply focused on the one same thing: "What the…?" A glimpse of the other side of life, quite focused, needing only now.

Reentering life is hard once you have touched the afterlife. We hit the iron bridge with a shock up our tailbones. We shudder at our recent visitation, then turn back to the drive time commercial free party jam on the headphones.

This spiritual discussion is dedicated to all the beautiful and bold bus drivers of the Chicago Transit Authority.