5 Punched Red Pass

We all heard the thunk. Regular riders get used to the sounds on the bus – the digitally feminal “Stop Requested”, the hiss of the wheelchair ramp, the honk of cars. We know the sound of coins clinking into the farebox.
But this time we heard a thunk instead of a clink. It sounded like something inside the short metal obelisk had fallen out of place.
“PLEASE TAKE YOUR PUNCHED RED PASS,” the overhead speaker blurted. We all look at one another; that is not something the robot ever says. “PLEASE TAKE YOUR PUNCHED RED PASS,” it repeats. The bus driver appears as puzzled as we do. The farebox doesn’t dispense red passes nor does it punch tickets.
“PLEASE TAKE YOUR PUNCHED RED PASS.” The driver is pushing buttons on her control tablet, looking at the kiosk as if the solution is outside instead of internal. “PLEASE TAKE YOUR PUNCHED RED PASS.”
Some of us laugh. The driver does not. The driver motions dreadlocked RastaMan back towards the seats and drives. Maybe she’s hoping the robot will fix itself, but it doesn’t. It keeps exhorting someone to take the PUNCHED RED PASS. The driver slaps the farebox, like slapping an old school TV to improve reception.
We move from stop to stop, taking on new passengers, mostly regulars. The British Lady gets on, full of tea and crumpets. The Limping Vet gets on, happy to pay no fare. His sidekick is with him, the Evangelical Asian, always willing to pray for us. The Pretty Hispanic Lady, on her way to work at the Post Office.
“PLEASE TAKE YOUR PUNCHED RED PASS.” The once sultry siren of “next stops” is starting to grate on people. The driver occasionally reslaps the farebox. RastaMan starts a beatbox rhythm, spittingly repeating the phrase over and over.
“Make it stop! Make it stop!” screams Special Lady, a woman with developmental disabilities who nonetheless pluckily navigates the CATS system every day. We wonder where she goes. Bigot Lady looks at her with disdain. Bigot Lady appears to hate almost everyone – people of color, the elderly, crying babies, the poor, the handicapped. We all wonder why she rides a city bus.
“PLEASE TAKE YOUR PUNCHED RED PASS.”
We stare at each other. Bike Guy looks ready to get off and grab his bike from the rack on the front bumper. Jerry Lee Elvis is typing furiously on his cell phone, his T-shirt sleeve rolled to hide a pack of cigs. The Smokeblower has a captive audience. His endless patter of verbosity mixes with the now also annoying beatbox of RastaMan and the screams of Special Lady to create audible chaos: “PLEASE TAKE YOUR PUNCHED RED PASS.”
“This is a First World Problem,” asserts Old Guy Bookworm.
“What do you mean?” asks Augusta, the African girl.
“I mean yes it’s annoying,” he says, “but it’s a problem that is only annoying in the First World. The digitally composed gender-specific voicebot on the automated revenue collection device of our natural gas-powered mass transit vehicle has temporarily malfunctioned. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet, we still move from Point A to Point B. I assure you riders lucky enough to catch any bus in poor third world countries wouldn’t care about the talking box.”
The crowd is openly protesting now. Grumbling to ourselves, complaining into phones, arguing about potential fixes – the cacophony overlays the beatbox, the Special screaming, the engine roar. People are yelling at the driver; the ‘bot is incessantly yelling at us. “PLEASE TAKE YOUR PUNCHED RED PASS.” Evangelical Asian is praying out loud. Some guy is banging his head on a window. It’s loud and chaotic.
We can see the Jewish Girl up ahead waiting for us. We are rolling toward her when suddenly a car whips in front of the bus and brake checks us. Our driver swears and slams on the air brakes. We all jerk forward, the standees stumbling, briefcases sliding, some heads hit the seat in front of them, people cry out. And we all hear another thunk.
“PLEASE TAKE YOUR PUNCH” and that was it. The digital femme fatale shuts up.
There is stunned silence, then we all cheer. There are some high fives and some thank gods. Special Lady is trying to hug Bigot Lady. The door swooshes open for the Jewish Girl who has walked down to where we are stopped.
“There is no fare today!” declares the driver to our newest passenger. “This ride is free!”

The End