"Good Morning, Neighbor!"

Patty Wakenter

The sun is shining when I get on the southbound No. 151 bus. But Chicago's winter landscape is at its dingiest—leafless trees, pools of melted snow, cars covered with slush.

The bus drives through scenic Lincoln Park for a few miles, but no one looks out of the windows. We passengers sit jammed together in heavy clothes, lulled by the monotonous humming of the motor and the stuffy, overheated air.

No one speaks. That's one of the unwritten rules of Chicago commuting. Although we see the same faces every day, we prefer to hide behind our newspapers. The symbolism is striking: people who sit so close together are using those thin sheets of newsprint to keep their distance.

As the bus approaches the Magnificent Mile, a row of glittering skyscrapers along Michigan Avenue, a voice suddenly rings out: "Attention! Attention!"

Papers rattle. Necks crane.

"This is your driver speaking."

Stillness. We look at the back of the driver's head. His voice has authority.

"Put your papers down. All of you."

The papers come down, an inch at a time. The driver waits. The papers are folded and placed on our laps.

"Now, turn and face the person next to you. Go ahead."

Amazingly, we all do it. Still, no one smiles. Just unthinking obedience, the herd instinct at work.

I face an older woman, her head wrapped tightly in a red scarf. I see her nearly every day. Our eyes meet. We wait, unblinking, for the next order from the driver.

"Now, repeat after me ...  " It is a command, delivered in the tones of a drill sergeant. "Good morning, neighbor!"

Our voices are weak, timid. For many of us, these are the first words we have spoken today. But we say them in unison, like schoolchildren, to the stranger beside us.

We smile reflexively. We cannot help it. There is the feeling of relief that we are not being kidnapped or robbed. But more, there is the faint sense of unleashing a common civility long repressed. We have said it; the barrier has been broken. Good morning, neighbor. It was not so hard after all. Some of us repeat it. Others shake hands. Many laugh.

The bus driver says nothing more. He doesn't need to. Not a single newspaper goes back up. The bus hums with conversation. We start by shaking our heads over this crazy driver, which leads to other commuting stories.

I hear laughter, a warm, bubbly sound I have never heard before on bus No. 151.

When we reach my stop, I say good-bye to my seatmate, then jump from the doorstep to avoid a puddle. Four other buses have pulled up at the same stop, disgorging passengers. The riders still seated inside look like statues—unmoving, silent. Except for those on my bus. As No. 151 drives away, I smile as I watch the animated faces of the passengers. This day is starting off better than most.

I look back at the driver. He is studying his mirror, searching for an opening in the traffic. He gives no sign of being aware that he's just pulled off a Monday morning miracle.