Today I have a purpose even if I’m still trying to find it. Inspired by multitudes of food shows playing as background noise while I do things around the apartment, I’ve decided to completely delve into the world of cooking. I’m going to the store to buy a few things to fill some of the glaring holes in my patchwork pantry.
It is another beautiful Indian summer day; the atmosphere is very light and airy. If I close my eyes it’s easy to pretend I’m standing barefoot on the rails of a pirate schooner with my fist around a hemp cord. I indulge myself with a deep salty air inhalation through my nose-the sea sprayed my face. Not really, it was dirty street water from the rain the night before applied by an insensitive driver.
When I get in the bus there is a woman already on who is wildly chatting into her phone. With every dramatic headshake her golden bangle bracelets brush against her lime green fleece jacket. Her purse sits on the raspberry colored pants she is wearing. She is speaking very quickly in Spanish, it’s all good, something something something and also he… something something something. My Spanish is limited and I can’t hear everything she’s saying over the hisses and crescendos of the bus’s acceleration.
I got off the bus on a whim at Ross to find another pair of work pants. I found a pair too but relying on the bus is still somewhat new to me. The luxury of leaving your things in a car while you are in a different store is difficult to adjust to. Nevertheless I can imagine the consequences of walking out of Wal-Mart with a pair of pants in your backpack that you did not pay for there.
No they’re mine! I would say in my defense. I swear! I would be tackled by security, hand cuffed. I’d have to stay behind the black bars of the Wal-Mart jail and be forced to wear the Miley Cyrus clothing line. Perhaps I’m being too timid. This could be explained away with a laugh and a smile until it becomes an inside joke between the greeter and I. There would be forced awkward smiles and giggles (which come naturally to me anyway) until he either graduates college or I take the bus an hour out of my way to a different store because the joke went on too long and became too uncomfortable. With these pressing thoughts, I decide to come back later for the pants.
I pop into a fast food restraint to get a quick something to hold me over for the rest of the trip. A blond mother charges to the front of the line, “I’m sorry, sorry, this wasn’t supposed to have ketchup on it, it has ketchup, can I have one without ketchup?” Her fingers pull apart the burger so she could show the poor cahier how badly they performed. For whatever reason, the mother poked her fingers into the ketchup and onions and I wonder what else is under her fingernails. As I walk out with a burger of my own I’m hoping it isn’t the one that wasn’t supposed to have ketchup on it.
I take my burger to the bus stop, there is a man already waiting. He looks like someone who attends Comicon every year, which is not necessarily a bad thing. I would like to go there someday but I think he is there everyday. He is writing on a chart on a clipboard sitting on top of a package from amazon. The pencil he is using is attached at the clip by spindled athletic tape. His long fading brown hair flows in the light breeze, the top of his head is bald but not greasy or shiny. I look up and think I see the bus coming although it is a blue Freightliner tow truck with orange lights on top of the cab that fools me. There is a blond woman sitting behind me, which is all I know about her; I try to be a polite observer.
There are so many people on the bus! I want to sit among everyone in the front but there is never a courteous way to bombard. I walk by a man wearing all black clothes who is passed out in the first forward facing seat. A man behind him is wearing a glitzy purple top hat out of a drag queen’s dream. When I get close enough to see the rest of his outfit I can’t help but being a little disappointed. He is wearing a faded navy blue sweatshirt that is adorned with moon howling wolves and denim jeans.
As I sit down at the very back of the bus a cell phone clunks to the floor and slides toward me. It’s owner looks around for it unsuccessfully between the bus seats, he must lose things to his couch often. I didn’t immediately dive to grab it for him; you never know how people will react. I’ve been in customer service for thirteen years, which means I’ve been yelled out for the most ridiculous things that I usually have no control over. I pick up his phone and hand it to him. He looked me in the eye and genuinely says, “Thank you.”
The two men in front of me sharing a double seat look as though they have recently been released from prison. The man closest to me is blaring music from his sprint phone, it sounds like Korn. The left side of his face suggests he has a blond bulldog mustache with a multiple day shadow. I want to ask them what their stories are. In this case it is lucky I am so naturally shy, floating in their stench was bad juju.
For the most part all of Bulldog’s clothes matched. He wore a gray leather jacket that looked as though it was originally black over a dark gray hoodie and light gray sweat pants. Farther down the road he warmed up and unzipped his jacket. A corner of a faded denim shirttail pokes out. His seatmate has gray eyebrows, gray beanie and a hoodie of gray and black horizontal stripes with silver wire rimmed glasses. I wonder if they ride the bus sometimes for fun.
I’m grateful for not being homeless and that I am afforded the opportunity to experiment with cooking. I enjoy not having to put gas in a car, worry about the tire pressure or if there is enough oil. In the case I would have a very nice car I would have to worry about payments and whether or not the next time it is left in the parking lot will be the last time it doesn’t have a scratch. For now we all share the bus.