Years ago there was a motion to stop the MTA 8 Bus. Its route is east to west on eighth and ninth streets. The reasons given were fewer passengers. The east and west neighborhoods spoke up. Many were parents who used the bus to transport their kids back and forth from schools. It worked.

Several days ago I was on the MTA 8 Bus going west.It was about 4:30 pm, the time extra curricular activities wind down. Seated at the front of the bus across from me was a good looking man, slightly disheveled after a day’s work: rolled up white sleeves, loosened tie. Maybe 38ish? He sat with his head in his hands. On either side of him were two young boys. To the right was a six year old. To the left was a nine year old. Of course, I’m assuming these ages. The older child banged an empty plastic bottle relentlessly against the seat, keeping time by screaming. The younger child fluttered a green object and kept grabbing his father who unwound the boy from his embraces. The child made loud, guttural sounds incessantly. The father made futile attempts to calm the kids. Mostly, he sat with his head buried in his hands.

For me their anguish and suffering fenced them in. Like me, the other passengers said nothing. What was there to say? The kids were driving us nuts but we all held on to our annoyance. When they got off the bus I was relieved. What about them? Where was their relief? What’s the mother like? What’s home life like?

What would you have done?