It was 8:37 a.m., and the No. 17 bus began chugging westward across Detroit.
On stepped the fast-food worker who makes chicken shawarma that’s delivered to doorsteps, the janitor who cleans
It was 8:37 a.m., and the No. 17 bus began chugging westward across Detroit.
On stepped the fast-food worker who makes chicken shawarma that’s delivered to doorsteps, the janitor who cleans
By 9:15, every available row on the bus was occupied. Strangers sat shoulder-to-shoulder. The city might be spread across 139 square miles, but one morning last week, there was no way to social distance aboard this 40-foot-long New Flyer bus. Passengers were anxious and annoyed. Resigned, too.
Detroit has become a national hot spot, with more than 7,000 infections and more than 400 deaths. One reason for the rapid spread, experts say, is that the city has a large working-class population that does not have the luxury of living in isolation. Their jobs cannot be performed from a laptop in a living room. They do not have vehicles to safely get them to the grocery store.
And so they end up on a bus. Just like the No. 17 — a reluctant yet essential gathering place, and also a potential accelerant for a pandemic that has engulfed Detroit. It is a rolling symbol of how the virus is affecting Americans in disparate ways, often based on class and wealth.
Similar protective measures are taking place across the country.
On Sunday, Gov. Phil Murphy of New Jersey announced that transit riders older than 3 would need to wear masks on trains and buses or else be denied service. Mr. Murphy also mandated that transit employees wear gloves and masks after one of its conductors died from coronavirus complications.
And the transit system serving Eugene, Ore., Lane Transit District, also recently required bus riders to wear masks.