Playtime

William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1825-1905) - The Remorse of Orestes (1862)

"Shwu shwu shwu shwu baaaaAAAAAh," the sound is between the raspberry lip imitation of a Harley and a crow squawk. Clapping hands add to the improvisation.

In the late '80s I saw Maria Joao vocalize her sparkling guts out to a small crowd in a Chicago loft. She would jump from a tender melody of scratches and hisses to blasting a note of operatic dimensions--the call of Eumenides must be heard.

"BeeAch BeeAch zzzzz Bzzzz eyoyoyoyoy yip yip hsssss," the sharp and constant changes rattle the ears of the riders, but most resist turning around.

We play the avoidance game, like an opposite polarized magnet, our heads repelled by the back of the bus.

But today there is an accompanying ballet.

Short blonde hair, dressed in a hooded winter jacket, grey sweatpants with black stripe, torn at the calf, and battered running shoes spotted by white paint, he squats on the seat in front of me, sticking one leg out and then the other, like a Russian folk dancer. He turns toward me, still squatting on his seat. Now I am too close to the stage.

One spring afternoon, while my friend and I eat lunch on a bench around 77th and 5th Avenue, a group of elementary school children pour off buses from a private Hebrew school. They surround us, staring with wide eyes as if we were the latest edition to the Central Park Zoo.

The dancer becomes a track and fielder as he moves off the seat into the aisle covered with tootsie roll wrappers and begins doing long thrusts, preparing for a sprint. Next, he's a surfer, balancing the bus as it swerves from lane to lane.

Most ignore the show, but one guy with a bundle of papers and pen in his hand turns around and stares.

The avant-garde ensemble in the back continues--vocals, clapping, knee slapping and window rapping--going silent at points but rising back to mad cacophony again.

The audience is getting restless--as if they intended to see Beauty and the Beast and stepped into Avenue Q by mistake. A few begin shooting annoyed glances at the entertainers.

Now Andy Irons has become Alexander Popov, squatting with his hands pointed forward about to launch himself. He turns one way, then the other, checking out his competition. When the bus screeches to a stop, he uses the momentum to launch forward.

"Sorry buddy," he says after bumping a rider huddled in the clam position, his recognition of others suddenly breaking the fourth wall.

It's my stop. As I move toward the back door, I finally look at the back-seat performers. Laminated name tags adorn their chests.