On the bus, people stake out their territory, with their bodies and with their possessions. It can feel unfriendly, but generally folks will move their stuff, if you point and raise your eyebrows. That’s especially true in the senior citizen/handicapped seats in the front of a Philly bus, the two short lines of seats that face one another across the aisle. Those seats are highly desirable, and all kinds of people sit there, including children, but for the most part, people will surrender the prior claim of an old person.

Yesterday morning, I boarded the 7 bus. One side was pretty full, so I took a seat next to a woman who was sitting sideways in her seat, so that she was facing in the direction of travel, like a lady reclining in the corner of a couch. She did not turn away from me when I sat down on the empty seat, just kept talking loudly on her phone practically into my ear, saying, “Who is this? Who is calling me?” for some time. I could feel her irritation that I was in her claimed space. I didn’t care. I muted my hearing aids and listened to a podcast.

I couldn’t move away from her, because on the other side of me was an elderly and well-kept gentleman, who needed a lot of room. He was very active, though not wild; unlike the sideways woman, it didn’t feel as if I was in his way. His feet just kept poking out emphatically in front of him, and on a regular basis he pointed dramatically into the air or waved his open hand at nothing. Sometimes he rocked a little. It wasn’t personal, and though he nudged my sandal a couple of times with his foot, I didn’t feel there was any rage involved. So I stayed put.

When I got to my stop, I started to pull the bell, but the sideways lady said in an offended way that she had already pulled it, so we got off together and walked off in different directions, glad to be done with one another.

On the next bus, the 21, a young man had taken up all four seats in the senior citizen section with his possessions, but when I pointed at the end seat, he picked up the drawstring bag that was in that seat and went back to his job. His job was apparently a physical performance. I couldn’t sit across the aisle because a guy in a mobility scooter was there, so once I discovered that the young man with the possessions was also an expansive gesturer like the old guy on the prior bus, it was too late to move.

Again, it didn’t feel personal. Besides, I had laid my claim to the seat, wasn’t taking up any more room than I was entitled to, and was perfectly willing to pay the price of having a comfortable seat near the front of the bus.

The price I paid was living in someone else’s space.

Sometimes people move themselves and their possessions into bus shelters, too, because those shelters have nice firm wooden benches. For a long time, there was a guy who basically lived at the bus stop at 17th and Market. He shouted at unwary people who made the mistake of thinking it was still a bus stop. A police officer once warned me as I was going to wait for the bus, and I said, “Oh, yeah, that’s his home,” and stood off to the side of the shelter. He moved out at some point.

Day before yesterday, a woman was in the shelter at 20th and Vine, eating takeout Chinese food and talking to herself, with her rolling suitcase and a couple of bags on the bench next to her, so I waited off to one side. Neither of us was going to be there forever, after all, and my 32 bus was coming soon.

My adult kid asked me what I wanted for my 74th birthday, and in addition to a facsimile edition of an illuminated manuscript and a massive book of Emily Dickinson’s poem drafts on pieces of envelope, I asked for a tiny folding stool I could pack in my bag.

Now I have my own place to sit, whenever I want. I can sit down at the top of a hill, at a demonstration, or at a bus stop. I am carrying my little home with me. It will doubtless offend someone that I am sitting there, but I can always pick it up and move if I have to. And I will have something to read, as well. The perfect world.