Dear Fung Wah,
It’s been over 9 months since I last rode you from Chinatown to Boston for $30 roundtrip. I miss you. I’ve been thinking about all the fun times we had together. Remember how my pants used to get stuck to your seats? Or how you’d say you had WiFi, even though we both knew you didn’t? Funny the things you miss.
I’ve never told you this before Fung, but you were my first. The first to take me to Chinese buffets in shady parking lots in the middle of the night. The first to make me sweat as you recklessly swerved between lanes at 115 MPH; only you could make me clench my butt cheeks like that for five hours straight.
Then one day, without warning, Uncle Sam tore us apart. He said that you were dangerous and that you’d hurt me if we stayed together. He didn’t understand our love and the risks I was willing to take to maintain our relationship. Waiting indefinitely on cold, rainy streets for you. Being smashed between morbidly obese men and the bathroom door. That one creepy guy who carried a hatchet onto the bus.
I’ve tried to move on. I even had a couple of dalliances with Bolt and Megabus, but they could never provide the excitement you brought to my life. Their back wheels never broke apart on the Mass Turnpike. They never had a woman try to punch out the emergency glass while holding a baby. How could you ever be replaced? You whose ticket prices were the only ones I could afford?
Some days I just sit in my room, looking out the window trying to remember the feeling of your rust-stained frame. Suddenly I’ll think I hear that sputtering sound that used to come from your duct-taped exhaust pipes, but then I realize it’s just grandma clearing her throat.
I miss you Fung Wah. I will always love you for your prices and your carefree spirit. Now I have to pay $70 for a round trip to Boston on the Greyhound. Tyranny. I hope you come back soon.