We encounter a number of characters each morning when I drive Monica to the bus stand at 7:45. There is the couple out for their morning exercize: he with shoulders back, chest out, arms swinging  with the drama of an old veteran in a Memorial Day parade; she, shorter than he by a foot, head down, lips moving  or at times hidden behind a white dust mask, eyes intent, lost in some message -- a lecture, it would appear -- she's delivering. We see them while we're heading for the bus. On the return, on the same street, I often pass the bald and bushy-bearded mechanic at Jim's Auto, riding his mountain bike to work, even on chilly mornings wearing but a dark T-shirt with his dark blue chino work trousers. He leads with his hairy chin, assaults the morning with elbows out, knees pumping, perhaps imagining the first stubborn nut he will work free amidst the smells of old anti-freeze and worn rubber.
At the bus stand, several women who've worked the night shift at a nearby medical supply warehouse await home-bound rides. They wear the uniform of their jobs -- dark blue polo shirts, tan chinos -- and they engage in constant, greatly-animated conversation. Monica and I sit in the heat or the airconditoning of our car and watch  these ladies and the other passengers, all of whom we've given names in order to be able to comment on their behavior.
"Well, the Smoker's here," we might say, referring to a middle-aged man with a sour disposition (according to Monica) and the smell of stale tobacco smoke. Or, "Wonder if Tips will make it today." Tips is a middle aged woman who, for some reason, bleaches only the tips of her neck-length hair.
"The Twins" are two of the warehouse ladies, whom we first named because we noticed their matching wardrobes well before we realized they wore uniforms. "The Passenger" is another warehouse lady who used to wait for the bus in the passenger seat of a co-worker's car until one of the twins would motion to her that their bus -- which is also Monica's -- was coming.
(The one who motioned could be, by virtue of her features, the sister of former NFL player and football commentator Tom Jackson, whose pontifications Monica absorbs before the Sunday games. Both this lady and Jackson have a pleasing, low-keyed counteance.)
Until The Passenger lost her ride, the Twins would hold forth at the curb in serious dialogue, during which the Jackson Twin would listen and respond to her taller co-worker, who seemed to lead the discourse, accentuating her points by jabbing the air in front of her with two straight fingers between which was clenched a lit cigarette. There seemed to be little mirth in the conversation.
Then the Passenger lost her ride and now merriment is the order of the day. The Tall Twin has been relegated to a minor role. Her brusque jabs return only when the Passenger is absent.
Of all the characters who populate our morning, I like the Passenger and the Jackson Twin best. Sitting in the silence of our car, we can feel the good will being exchanged up there at the curb. In the place of Tall Twin's vehement gestures, we see the flutter of the Passenger's hands as she shapes the funny story or, perhaps, joke she's telling. Her hands are in nearly uninterrupted motion, and when there is a lull, the Jackson Twin's hands fill the void, drafting her reply as, often as not, both ladies bend in convulsive laughter.
The Passenger and the Jackson Twin draw in new arrivals with their behavior. One younger woman whom I'll call The Apron -- for she always wears a dark-blue apron with pockets, apparently signifying her employment -- at first stood on the periphery of the discourse, smoking and swaying  her stout body from side to side. But over time, she has been welcomed into the fun, and her comments seem to have been embraced.
I told Monica this morning that on Monday, when we next visit the bus stand, I'm going to take up a place at the curb so  that I can hear what's transpiring. I'm imagining that beginning the day with the Jackson Twin and the Passenger has to be better than listening to shock jocks on the car radio or the news on NPR.