Nov. 27, 2007: Eye Trouble On Route 104

Story By Joe Zlomek

The young woman boarded SEPTA's Route 104 Express -- headed toward West Chester PA, 30 miles distant -- shortly after it left Philadelphia's 69th Street Terminal. She looked a little dazed as she clambered up the steps and stood at the front of the bus, dutifully behind the white line on the floor that marked its no-standing-passengers zone.

Maybe not dazed. Instead, confused. Or unsure. Like she was having trouble ...

Seeing. That was it. She couldn't see well.

Her brows were furrowed, and her eyes were squeezed into a near-permanent squint. She wasn't wearing glasses or, for that matter, any other visible eyewear. As she turned around to face forward, it was evident something was physically amiss with her left eye.

She was, otherwise, a seemingly typical college student. Probably attended West Chester University. Dressed in a red winter jacket with black-and-white piping, black slacks, and black sneakers, she carried a matching black Jansport canvas pack with a brown leather base. The pack looked full, as if it was heavy with books. It sat low on her back and seemed slightly uncomfortable upon her shoulders.

A brunette, her hair had been done up hurriedly into a sort of hanging bun that looked wind-strewn. She brushed a wisp of hair away from her forehead, reached into the jacket's right pocket, pulled out and flipped open a cell phone, and started sending a text message.

Her texting technique made the young woman stand out from others on the bus that day. Most people text at arm's length, their thumb and finger flailing wildly at cell phone buttons to punch out sentence fragments and symbols constituting their wisdoms of the moment. Not her. Her movements were slow and deliberate, and she regularly paused.

She paused to look. Closely.

Whatever her vision disability was, it required her to pull the phone very near to her eyes every few seconds. The phone's screen was so close it nearly covered her left eye like a patch. She'd type some, then squint some to check the screen's tiny, glowing letters. Type more, squint more. She barely finished one sentence in the time it takes other kids to hold entire text conversations.

Five minutes elapsed. Six. Seen from over her shoulder and back, the illuminated message was visible but undecipherable to fellow passengers. It consisted of only four lines, about three words to each line. She pushed "send," and off the message flew, into the ether.

In another 40 minutes the bus would deposit her at the university, ready to start the day's classes. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to read her textbooks in the same manner. Getting a degree that way might take decades.