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All American

For me the All American has always been the city bus driver. Since I first saw him clicking that little lever above his change machine, to the tinkle of the nickels and dimes sorting themselves out—since I first heard his timeless response: “Yeah, lady, get out at City Hall”—since I first plucked up the courage to ask him if he could manage change for a ten-dollar bill—ever since I first made his acquaintance he has exemplified for me The American. His slumped shirt-sleeved posture over the wheel, the weary reach of his arm towards that change machine, the occasional cursing at a cab  driver, the flustered answering of questions as he drives, his eyes always flicking to the mirror—all are the hallmarks of a man who knows the world for what is is, knows his own city to be its epitome, and has no illusions left. “So it’s a big city? Sure it is. So they’re tall buildings? So?”