While Driving Miss Ida

I hardly ever do anything for the benefit of humanity. Bill Boyarsky is out there warning everyone about bad government and Robin Abcarian is out there warning everyone about bad day-care centers, but all I ever do is wonder how many more words I have to write to fill 21 inches of space.

This was made clear to me the other day in a telephone message left on my answering machine by a woman I’ve named Constance Bigot. She calls every once in awhile to chastise “your people” for violent crime, graffiti, teen-age pregnancy, moral filth, welfare fraud and beer cans on the beach.

I’ve never actually spoken to her, thank god, but I have listened to her messages. While I don’t count them among my more pleasurable experiences, they do provide moments of comedy on otherwise lackluster days.

The last time she telephoned she said the reason for our current bus strike was that mostly Mexicans take the bus and, because Mexicans tend to be heavier, it overloads the system to such an extent that more maintenance is required. This puts a strain on the MTA work crew, which is why they want more money. Makes sense to me.

Then she said I ought to set an example for others of my kind by getting out there and helping alleviate the mess caused by the strike, since the strike was my fault to begin with.

That gave me the germ of an idea. I would spend a day driving stranded bus riders. At last, something for humanity.

*

It was not an easy undertaking. I didn’t want anyone to think I was, you know, cruising for chicks as I drove back and forth along the 17-mile length of Ventura Boulevard. My wife, Cinelli, suggested it was unlikely I would be suspected of that, but I might be mistaken for an old pervert. “Just don’t touch anyone,” she said.

I accomplished my humanitarian project by slowing at bus stops and asking anyone sitting there if I could take them someplace in the immediate vicinity. I wasn’t about to drive anyone to San Diego, but I would take them wherever they wanted to go along the Street of Dreams, which is what my friend Nick used to call Ventura Boulevard.

I picked up three different riders. Well, actually, one was a group of riders, four teen-agers I drove from the vicinity of Taft High to the Galleria mall in Sherman Oaks. But since their collective IQ was probably no higher than 98, I count them as one.

They entertained me by telling me how cool everything and elevated the language by substituting “goes” for “said” as an active verb. He goes, she goes, we go, they go. Finally, I go, “Here’s the Galleria,” and they go, “Cool!” And then they went.

My next rider was a clean-cut young man I picked up at Reseda. He was standing near a bearded, one-legged guy with a crutch who seemed to be trying to avoid Clint, which was his name. The person with the crutch waved me off when I asked if he wanted a ride, too. I learned why in a moment.

Clint had not been in the car three minutes when he said, “Do you love Jesus?” Uh oh. I said, “Well, I like him a lot.” It was a compromise. I’m not about to anger anyone who might hear the voice of God telling him to kill. We spent the whole ride talking about redemption. When he left, he said he’d pray for me.

*

Miss Ida was the best. She got into the car around White Oak, but not before poking her head in the window and studying me closely. You can’t be too careful. Ted Bundy was sweet-faced too. “All right,” she finally said, getting in, “let’s go.” I felt like Morgan Freeman in “Driving Miss Daisy,” but she was no Jessica Tandy. She was more like Clara Peller, the woman who used to shout, “Where’s the beef?”

Miss Ida’s real name was Ida Cohen. She was probably in her 80s and maybe 4-feet, 8-inches tall. She carried an umbrella to shield her from the sun and, no doubt, to beat the hell out of anyone who tried anything funny.

She hardly said a word most of the time, making me feel as though I ought to fill the void by babbling. Silence intimidates me. I told her about my job, my dog, my gallbladder operation, my military career, my tendency toward acne and my theories on why goldfish swim in a clockwise direction. She stared straight ahead, scowling.

She finally said, “Stop here,” which I did, immediately. To my surprise, Miss Ida reached into her purse, handed me $3 and strode off down the street. I shouted after her that the ride was free, but she never turned around. So I bought beer with the $3 and drank it on the beach. To hell with humanity. I tossed the cans in the surf, and strolled away humming “La Bamba.”