Laid-back summer in the city, hot lazy streets
Empty number four pulls up, get on and have a seat
I used to love the back seat but the arsim made it theirs
But they’re nowhere to be seen so I stretch out and get some air
Well, riding these buses is like riding a surfboard
Don’t hold on tight and you’ll get thrown overboard
Look over my sunglasses and take a look around
And see what the west wind blew into this town
Soldiers on vacation travel the world
Meet lots of interesting people and kill them
Snipers and vipers, satin dolls and leather girls
Find all their empty spaces and fill them
Smurfette works at the Super Sol counter
When they day’s done she goes to Bunnyclean and meets Flounder
They’re such a beautiful couple, looks like true love forever
I wish me and my maidelah could get our act together
Poor old yutzmach sitting on the fence
Trying to make a dollar out of ninety-nine cents
Meanwhile back at the Bethlehem Street station
The hard-ups take a hard look at the legs of the nation
Transplanted longhaired northeastern beach kids
In ratty t-shirts, jeans, and sneakers
Summers are spent on the rooftop tar beaches
With the sounds of NYC in their speakers
King George becomes a drag strip when the driver stomps the gas
Four and eight are racing, G-d help the one who tries to pass
Nightcrawlers and barroom brawlers join the urban festivities
The king of bad jokes is up to his usual activities
In the legendary stronghold of the midnight wreckers
Guitar-riding cowboys build tanks out of rundown Checkers
They can level the city with their full-volume sound
When they’re singing, Could you show me the way downtown
And Mike the Sarge, he makes the rounds with his head in space
Out of the blue, TV House shoves a mike in Mike’s face
They ask him for some words that will cheer the hearts of men
He says, Everything’s gonna be all right, the question is only when
Cross the intersection it’s like crossing the tracks
All the colors change from rainbow to black
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking ‘bout folks with black skin
Just the color of the coats and hats that seem to be “in”
Tante Fruma gets on and shoots a dirty look at two young lovers
She says, On this bus you two keep your hands off each other
The Bais Yaakov girls go out on a shidduch for a date
With lovable klutzes who can’t keep their faces straight
Diaspora refugees take to the streets and play their country sneeze drivel
To all those unfortunates who dare pass by
They say everything without saying anything at all
In a song about a golden peacock flying in the sky
Children Of The Guitar sit and sing sad folk songs
Trying to figure out just where the world went wrong
But in The Guitar there’s an edge like a knife
And it shines a ray of hope into an otherwise dull life
Well the wheels keep rolling
And the roads keep turning
And soon all that’s left are me and all these college girls
And everybody gets off
And walks out into the noonday dusty heat
At the terminal at the end of the world
©2023 The Hesh Inc.
My Israeli version of The Boss' "Does This Bus Stop at 82nd St.?"—a whirlwind portrait of a bus ride from one end of Jerusalem to the other, through downtown. Some of the characters in this pastiche might recognize themselves here; any resemblance is intentional.
Written in the mid-1980s, when I was in the thick of my time living in Israel. Has a nice main riff (based on some song I happened to hear while riding the bus) but the song was never recorded or performed.