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THE HIJACKER
The bus I was driving that day sat at the layover zone located at
Olympic Boulevard and 7th Street in Santa Monica. For those who
don’t know: a layover is the end of the bus route, where drivers wait
before resuming service and picking up passengers.
To provide some background, Olympic Boulevard was originally
named 10th Street. It was renamed Olympic Boulevard when Los
Angeles hosted the tenth Olympic Games, which took place from
July 30 to August 14, 1932. A typically quiet area that is somewhat
deserted in the evening creates a calm yet slightly eerie atmosphere.
On August 24, 2023, Metro Bus 5646, stationed at the layover, had
its doors closed but not locked, with four minutes remaining until its
scheduled departure.
The stillness of the surroundings added to the sense of anticipation
as the bus awaited the next leg of its journey. It was an average day on Metro Line 134. The sun was just beginning its descent as I waited near the driver’s seat to begin the return trip to Malibu. Then, out of nowhere, it happened.
A man forced the bus door open before I could even process what
was happening. The sound of the rubber seal breaking and the
sudden whoosh of air jarred me out of my rhythm. He then stumbled
onto the bus, his movements sharp and erratic, like he was running
on pure adrenaline.
“Get off the bus!” he barked, his voice raw and commanding.
For a moment, I just stared at him. While he wasn’t tall or physically
imposing, the intensity in his eyes—a mix of rage and desperation—
hit like a punch to the gut. My brain went into overdrive, trying to
figure out if this was some kind of joke, a misunderstanding, or
something far worse.
Without even thinking, I said, “No, you get off the bus.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. It wasn’t the
smartest thing to say, given the situation. His face twisted with anger
as he took another step, closing the gap between us. His right hand
hovered near his back pocket, fingers twitching as if cradling a
weapon he wouldn’t hesitate to use. “I’m gonna take you out! Get off, get off!” he yelled, his voice cracking as his body trembled.
That’s when it hit me: this wasn’t just a bad day for him or a moment
of frustration. This was real, and it was dangerous. My heart
pounded in my chest, each beat thundering louder than the last. I
was trapped, with nowhere to run and no way to defend myself. The
bus was my domain, my workplace, but in that instant, it felt more
like a cage.
“OK, OK,” I said. “I’m stepping off.”
The man didn’t move right away. Instead, his eyes narrowed as if
trying to decide whether to trust me. Finally, he stepped back,
allowing me to inch toward the door. My backpack was sitting on
the driver’s seat for easy access to my water bottle and other
essentials. As I reached for it, he grabbed it and hurled it onto the
sidewalk like trash.
“Go!” he barked, pointing aggressively at the open door.
