As the USS Donald Cook puts out to sea

a curious scene is played out on the Silver Line's SL#2 this evening. The bus picks us up in front of Drydock # 27 and speeds down Black Falcon Avenue, makes the dog-leg to Northern Ave and then blithely roars past a good nascent twenty passengers milling around the bus-stop.
Not so much as a by-your-leave even.
But then it gets even stranger, the driver pulls up to the very next stop and lets on a single solitary well insulated passenger, just as the doors whooshed open the cheery electronic voice intoned "Please report any unattended packages or suspicious behavior to the bus-driver".
Which put me in a quandary, how can I report the bus-driver's suspicious behavior to...the bus-driver? I mean whassup with dissin' the twenty on the sidewalk for the lone hammerhead one stop up?
I wanted to stand up, wave my battered paperback copy of "Lolita" overhead and announce "I...am an aesthete...I have taste decorum even, and this bus is operated by a driver of pronounced and morbid caprice!! I demand a detailed explanation!! An alibi, a little sonnet perhaps...but please for the love of the late muses, why didja blast past those twenty back there??"

Alas I did nothing, it was late I was tired if Al Queda or the Winter Hill Gang were in on it, I couldn't figure out their plot.

On the Red Line from South Station Tonight

I could've gotten to Alewife faster if the MBTA had the foresight to hitch up our train to a team of oxen.
No joke, I was a young man when I boarded that train full of naive' hopes about overcoming "switching problems in Davis Square", decades later we limped into Alewife liked the starved survivor's of Stalin's GULAG.
Honestly, the T compares unfavorably in almost every way to the Moscow Metro which I actually rode back in the early eighties. As I recall the schedule was reasonably dependable for the harried communist commuter. And that was Andropov's USSR we are talkin' about, seething with torpid deadheads and party hacks...yet somehow the damn trains rolled.
Can't say as much for the MBTA wherein daily one is exposed to the perils of premature senility from the slack-assed pace of the Red Line.