My new job is in the heart of Seattle, which means the only sane way to get there is by bus. Parking in Seattle is astronomical (many places top $20 a day) and the traffic sucks. King County public transit isn't the greatest but it certainly isn't the worst and can be downright convenient if you have the right combination of residence locale and destination. We lucked out in the combo lottery and I'm near an express "commuter" line. I call it a commuter line because it only runs during rush hour(s), starts in a residential area, jumps on the freeway, and then exits immediately into the bus tunnel. It's a different demographic than the bus line that travels up the highway I feature in my novels as a place for shady dealings (read: drug dealers and hookers).
The upsides to the commuter express include less urine and people who stare at their books or devices throughout the ride. The majority of riders observe the unspoken rules, which is good because my shift in business hours to rush hour means that more than half the time I'm standing. The seats get taken quickly. We shove ourselves all the way to the back, sometimes cramming two rows down the aisle. As an introvert with mild social anxiety, I find myself ratcheting up to moderate on the anxiety richter scale when I'm staring into a man's armpit (less than fresh after a long day of work) and a woman's purse is firmly pressed into my derriere. There's something about hurtling down the freeway at more than fifty miles-per-hour with nothing stopping you from being ejected from a bus but your grip and a metal pole. It's like high stakes stripper aerobics without the music or the fun.
the stadium stop. The line went up the stairs. You should have seen the inside of the bus.