“Young woman, put your child on your knees,” barked a hefty woman in her late fifties at me. As a side note, I had bought my son a seat on the bus and paid 320 shekels for it.
That day I was taking my son, Elad, to his savta’s apartment in Givataim. Elad is the giant of our familythough hes just five, people constantly mistake him for first grader. In our house, every person treats him as if hes ready for high school, so naturally, we always pay for his own seat on Egged buses. The truth is, he’s so tall and heavy, youd need a forklift to keep him on your lap. If he sat on me, we’d both be squished, and every passenger nearby would leave with a shoe print on their trousers. So yes, Elad gets his own spotits the only way for everyone to survive.
That morning, Elad was glued to the window, giving Givataim traffic updates, while I sat next to him. We took the front row, ready to leap off when we reached our stop, before half of Tel Aviv decided to exit. I even told the driver, with noble confidence, I bought a ticket for my son, so please dont stick someone on his lap.
We rolled out of town, and suddenly, the bus was flagged by a substantial woman standing at the bus stop, clearly avoiding cardio. There were still empty seats somewhere in the back, so the driver stopped. As this woman squeezed herself up the steps, the bus threatened to tilt, and the passengers froze, giving each other Did you see that? looks. Once she had finished her epic climb and shut the door hard enough to make it rattle, the driver gave a sound of pure misery.
Nu, young lady, put the boy on your lap, came her command again. I calmly explained that I had paid for his seat and he was not my backpack. The driver, playing referee, suggested she walk back to the empty seats. The woman snapped, claiming she deserved a window seat, and that itd be easier for Elad and me to move. Also, she wanted everyone to know she is a veteran minibus commuter and always sits by the window.
But I wasnt about to surrender our seats. The bus picked up speed, and she stood stubbornly next to us, practically orbiting our row, refusing to budge. My blood pressure was rising, but I tried not to make Elads visit to savta a psychological drama. I started chatting with Eladhe, in turn, began a passionate debate about who would win: Israeli soccer players or Sabra prickle bushes. This calm seemed to enrage our visitor, and she shouted, Quick, move your boy so I can sitwhat, you dont understand? In my best zen voice, I repeated that Elad stays put. Hes a big boy, and I paid for his seat. We boarded first, and theres no such thing as seat assignments on Egged.
The driver kept his eyes on the road, clearly experienced in handling bus disputes. The other passengers ignored the drama; headphones and sleeping masks were everywhere. Eventually, though, the bus began producing unsolicited advice: Geveret, go to an empty seat already, and, Stop shouting, this isnt your living room. The woman insisted she couldnt go back because her size made things difficult. It was obvious to the entire bus she wanted our precious seat out of pure stubbornness, not necessity.
Tension reigned on the bus. Then came the real scene. The driver braked, got out from behind the wheel, marched over, and started unloading the hefty womans shopping bags onto the sidewalk. With one swift move, he escorted her out of the minibus, leaving her gaping in shock. The driver returned, slid into his seat, and with a satisfied grin, drove off. Silence reigned. We all pooled a few shekels to make up for his lost fare. When we finally arrived in Givataim and handed him the money, he laughed so hard he promised never to let her on board againapparently, she was notorious for turning every Egged route into a soap opera.
