Force of Habit

Years ago I shared a bus route with an elderly woman. It was a #5 from Northgate to Downtown Seattle and it passed by my stop a little after 8 am every morning. She would already be on-board, exactly three rows back - the window seat - on the right side of the aisle.

I sat next to her because the other window seats were taken, and since she was a tiny, thin woman, I never felt crowded. For the most part she sat perfectly still, slightly hunched over, never even looking up at me when I sat next to her. In fact, she moved so infrequently that when she did move, I would notice.

On our first ride together, I remember three distinct actions. First she adjusted her hat - a navy blue beret. At another moment, she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small white piece of paper that looked like a receipt, glanced it over, then placed it back where she got it. Finally, she reached into the breast pocket of her jacket and pulled out a box of wintergreen Tic-Tacs, removed three and placed them in her mouth. Her movements all seemed slow and labored.

Of course, none of this was extraordinary until I started riding next to her on a regular basis. I soon realized she performed those three actions every single morning. The hat adjustment, the receipt, the Tic Tacs. Always in that order.

After several days, I discovered something else. These things were happening at the exact same places in the route. She adjusted her hat as the bus entered the Aurora bridge. When it stopped at Denny she'd pull out the receipt. On the corner of Downtown by Macy's she would eat the Tic-Tacs.

This lasted for maybe three weeks. I started waiting for her actions - snapping my finger at the moment they would take place. There was something so eerie and sad about these habitual acts, like she was sleepwalking. And then, one morning she wasn't on the bus, and I never saw her again.