The Sinkhole
A bus fell — or more accurately, sank — into a sinkhole in Pittsburgh today. The incident left me and everyone around me mesmerized, each image or article or meme resonating throughout our collective consciousness and our newsfeeds for the better part of the day. Part hilarity, part karmic retribution (who among us hasn’t wished the earth would open and swallow a Port Authority bus?), part genuine concern. Statements were made. Art was created. A bus sank, more and more slowly, into whatever putrid sludge is lurking below Penn Avenue.
The entire thing smacked of symbolism and meaning to me. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. In fact, the sinkhole is the first thing that’s inspired me to write something personal in over a year. Driving home from work today, I had two things on my mind: one, writing this, and two, my mortality, as I was nearly side swiped by a Port Authority bus going under the overpass on Route 8 (and yes, I did roll down my window and shout “I WISH IT WERE YOU IN THE SINKHOLE, JAGOFF!” at the driver).
I had an almost ridiculous sense of kinship with the bus in the sinkhole. What started as a source of distraction became a deliberate journey of self inquiry. I am the bus; the bus is me. Why am I gravitating towards this so hard? Why am I buzzing to write about it? What makes it rife for meme culture and viral content? Why is everyone so drawn to the bus in the hole?
The first thing that struck me about it was the absolutely ridiculous positioning. I read somewhere that the bus is bottom-heavy and that’s why it went into the sinkhole in the way that it did. Such an indecent description, such an undignified pose: the bus’s fat ass weighing it down into the concrete as the front end rears up in embarrassment. Its windshield and headlights gaze up towards an unnaturally blue sky, a blank stare bordering on weariness. It is a complete and total “get me out of here” moment. And honestly, bus, I feel you. Helpless escapism has become my default mode lately. The bus and me, we’re not a scene of overt wreckage or carnage or trauma; in fact, to the naked eye, there’s not a scratch on us. It’s just that we have this energy, this radiating desperation and vulnerability that draws curiosity and pity from everyone around us. Ass down, face up: that’s the way we like to have an existential crisis.
Then there’s the “lone passenger.” The lone passenger is the poor soul who was on the bus when it sank. It is also the wording used by the world’s most self-aggrandized PR Crisis Manager, who put it in Port Authority’s official statement about the incident to try to temper some of the thunderous clapbacks from Yinzers and Americans nationwide. ‘Lone,’ typically reserved for gunmen, rangers, and wolves, here is used to indicate that the damage was minimal. For the record, I am super glad that the lone passenger is okay, I don’t think it makes a difference whether they were by themselves or not, and I sincerely do hope they sue the shit out of the city. But also, this phrase just creates even richer metaphor. The bus was not packed full of people, there was no panic and stampeding for the door, there is no GoFundMe for the victims. Just one lone passenger, trying to go about their day, clamoring slowly for the door in a daze as the bus went down degree by degree. Really what strikes me here is the enormous loneliness of the situation. No one else was on the bus. No neighbors and friends, no downtown commuters. Not my 74-year-old therapist, who keeps telling me that research shows 29 is the loneliest age. Not my ex-boyfriend, who completely disappeared from my life to such an extent that I question if he was ever real. Not my family, who are so invested in my happiness that I get reminded that I’m not happy. Not my friends, giving me advice on being alone when they’ve been with their partners for 8 years. I repeat: No one. is on. the bus. I'm not bitter though, and neither is the bus. In the wake of the damage, we’re sort of relieved that no one else is along for the ride these days.
And finally, the most lingering feeling: the slow descent into ennui. The authorities don’t know what caused the sinkhole. They don’t know the extent of the damage. They are still struggling to fix it. Of all the things that could have happened, of all the loop-de-loops and the absolutely reckless, above-the-law driving they have done, this bus was at a stop light. Safe, immobile. Then — and not even suddenly, just then — it started sinking. I just don’t think I’ve ever identified with anything more. The slow ennui of composing emails all day every day. Of tracking “fun” personal purchases in my budget spreadsheet. Of calling the chimney sweep and the HVAC guy and the gynecologist. Of having a filing cabinet at home that I actually use. Of methodically forcing myself to go on dates and apps. Of taking out the trash, doing crunches, paying taxes. Of forever weighing the cost of a trip to Paris or a piece of pizza. Of spending all of my waking hours devoting the entire big beautiful expanse of my brain to contemplating the most inane minutiae you could ever possibly imagine.
Sinking, slowly, into a hole of my own making.