Standing in line for
the 74, I untangle my ear buds in the palm of my hand. The cold night air cuts
deep as I dodge the elbows and bags of encroaching passengers. Walking to the
back of the bus, I pass rows of Israelis. Religious women have their hair
wrapped in patterned cloths that extend a foot above their head. Bundled up old
men with plastic bags at their feet stare at themselves out the windows. The
bus pulls away from the curb and speeds through Jerusalem, encased in orange
lamplight. Suddenly, a melody lifts above the engine. Faces freeze. Someone is
singing in Arabic.
Everyone
starts shifting in their seats. A man wearing knotted tzit-tzit cranes his neck to stare. The voice rises louder and
louder, twisting in the air until my ears ring. A soldier stands up. I tilt my
head slightly over my shoulder and see a girl wearing a leather jacket with
long black hair and red lipstick. She grins widely, perched on the edge of her
seat. I look back at the passengers in front of me. A man yells at her to be
quiet from the front of the bus.
“Enta
Omri! Oum Kalthoum! A classic!” she yells back. “What do you want?” She snaps
at the crowd in Hebrew. Everyone tries to ignore her. Then the girl begins
clapping and singing in Hebrew. Whispers spread. She scrunches up her face and mimics
an American accent. A few people chuckle. The Haredi boy sitting to my right giggles
and leans onto his arm to hide his smile.
I look back at the girl
and smile too. She stops and speaks to me in Hebrew, but soon begins again
in English:
“What’s
your name?”
“Catie.”
“Kitty?
That’s my name,” she laughs loudly. “Kitty, Catie, Kitty, Catie,” she points
back and forth between us. At the next stop, she swings into the aisle. She
starts singing in Arabic once more, this time a little quieter. The doors open.
She steps off. I put my ear buds back in and look out at the cityscape. The drone of
the engine rises and I pull out my ear buds.
