Some years ago, I was stuck on a crosstown bus in San Antonio during rush hour. Traffic was barely moving.
The bus was filled with cold, tired people who were deeply irritated with one another, with the world itself.
Two men yelled at each other about a shove that might or might not have been intentional. A pregnant woman got on, and nobody offered her a seat. Rage was in the air; no mercy would be found here. But as the bus approached S. Alamo Street, the driver got on the intercom.
“Folks,” he said, “I know you have had a rough day and you are frustrated. I can’t do anything about the weather or traffic, but here is what I can do. As each one of you gets off the bus, I will reach out my hand to you. As you walk by, drop your troubles into the palm of my hand, okay? Don’t take your problems home to your families tonight, just leave them with me. My route goes right over the River Walk, and when I drive by there, later, I will open the window and throw your troubles in the water.”
It was as if a spell had lifted. Everyone burst out laughing. Faces gleamed with surprised delight.
People who had been pretending for the past hour not to notice each other’s existence was suddenly grinning at each other like, is this guy serious?
Oh, he was serious.
At the next stop, just as promised, the driver reached out his hand, palm up, and waited. One by one, all the exiting commuters placed their hand just above his and mimed the gesture of dropping something into his palm. Some people laughed as they did this, some teared up but everyone did it. The driver repeated the same lovely ritual at the next stop, too. And the next. All the way over the River Walk.