The first stop out of Central Terminal on Andrews Ave. A seasoned citizen with a folding cart. She's taking her time, and not just because of her apparent advanced age. She's trying to do someone a solid, holding up the bus for another woman running our way. The runner is a trim jogger in hot pink spandex, and our waiting proves futile as she zips on by the bus. The considerate customer completes her boarding and clears the doorway.
"Does anybody really care if you miss the bus anymore?" She asked herself, reminiscing over the bygone days of looking out for each other.
"I'm 73 years old. I raised three sons to have good manners and good jobs. At my age, I feel I finally figured it out."