Jefferson Lines buses have the most spectacularly unfriendly service of any bus line I’ve ridden, ever. Worse than Greyhound, worse than Peter Pan, worse even than the LA Unified School District bus I rode as a kid.

Let me back up.

Jefferson Lines is a bus service that runs all over the midwest. As far as I could tell, they were the only way to get from the Minneapolis-Saint Paul airport to a small town about forty minutes away, without recourse to a rental car or a taxi. It was easy to make the ticket reservation online, and they charged me $13.50 or so for a 40-minute trip, which seemed reasonable. I was made a little uncomfortable by their “no refunds under *ANY CIRCUMSTANCES*” policy on the tickets, but then, lots of transportation providers are similarly restrictive, and I figured I hadn’t much to lose.

Waiting for this bus at MSP airport is not the most comfortable or reassuring activity. There’s a bus area, but most of the signs are for city buses. There’s no sign to show that Jefferson Lines also stops there. What’s more, the information desk at ground transportation was closed on the day in question. So when, at 2:12 PM, no bus had yet arrived, I felt the beginnings of concern. If I missed the 2:15 bus, there wasn’t another one scheduled until 8-something in the evening. And besides, it was cold out there at the bus stop.

It was with growing paranoia, and decreasing feeling in my fingers and toes, that I waited — through 2:15, 2:25, 2:30. A man with a long white beard and a grim expression was also waiting and stomping to and fro, and after fifteen minutes or so of ignoring one another, in the fashion of seasoned travelers, we finally made eye-contact and admitted we shared a common predicament.

At 2:44, the Jefferson Lines bus pulled in to the bus bay. The man and I both made something of an undignified sprint to where the driver had parked (well away from the curb) in case he thought no one was there. I met the driver descending the stair. He was a gentleman at the end of middle age, with greying facial hair and a bleary expression, and would have been about right cast in the role of an old sea dog — one of Captain Flint’s worn out companions, or part of Ahab’s crew.

He looked me over, up and down, and his eye fell on the ticket I was holding out hopefully.

“Mumble mumble terminal,” he said.

“You have to go into the terminal?” I repeated, confused.

“You’re a quick one,” he said. “Don’t know why everyone’s so impatient. Can’t even let me go inside.”

I blinked. “Er… sorry. I thought my ticket said the bus left at 2:15, and it’s 2:45 now, so I figured you were going to leave again right away.”

“I don’t care what your ticket says. I run on real time. American time.”

I opened my mouth, but no appropriate response came to mind.

The driver, warming to his subject: “If I don’t leave [muttered place name] until 1:15, I’m not going to get here at 2:15, am I? How come everyone’s got to complain about it? Everywhere I go, passengers saying, ‘You’re laaaate.’” He took my ticket, then held out his hand without further comment.

“ID?” I suggested.

With sarcastic emphasis, as though addressing the village idiot: “Yeees, ID.”

He made a show of examining my passport, then handed it back to me. “Not going to get you there any faster, but you can get on. And take your bag. I’m not checking it for you.”

I can only assume that all this was the deep grouchiness and resentment of a man held up on his way to use the men’s facilities indoors. One might ask why he didn’t stop somewhere else if that was the problem, but considering his alternatives, perhaps I feel a little pity for the man after all.

He did keep complaining about his whiny, unreasonable passengers well into the forty-minute trip, though.