No Where To Go On The Bus

December 26, 2011

            The warm blue sky is spotted with thick fluff clouds blushing grey.  I have been enjoying the much-needed rain but a day of sunshine would be brilliant.  Today is feigning an Indian summer but the weather hasn’t made up it’s mind yet.

            A young black man who is very clean cut is wearing a University of Texas jacket joins me at the stop.   At first he sits to my left on the circular bench at a harmless distance. 

            I’m internally struggling as my own cheerleader.  Right now I’m unreasonably anxious about getting on the bus, border lining panic attack.  I have no purposeful destination today.  The man stands up, walks around behind me and stands to the right of me.  He made me think the bus was coming so I motion to stand up.   The bus is nowhere in sight so I cross my right leg over my left instead.

I don’t have a clear idea of where the bus goes; I just know it’ll eventually come back around.  I’ve never bought or used a day pass before; I don’t know how far I will go.  The angst manifests in the very pit of my stomach.  The man crosses in front of me now and again fools me into thinking the stupid bus is here.  I’m trying to look around the bend to see if the bus will suddenly manifest out of the magic of Want when the young man turns around and offers me a stick of gum.  He just held out a little green pack with three sticks, looking at me with a crooked horse smile.

“Would you like some gum?” he asks me again, stretching his arm even closer to me.

“No thanks, I’m set.”  The part of my head who is Miss Manners says, you should take it, that would be the polite thing.  Then I listen to the voice who sounds awfully similar to my mother’s shouts, are you crazy?! Run away, run away! Stranger Danger!!  I sat there and smiled, struck with the dumbness of a thousand episodes of CSI and Dexter streaming through my brain until the bus came.

A driver I have not ridden with yet, a heavyset black woman with curly hair to her chin. It seems as though the majority of this bus’ patrons are homeless.  In particular a man who I immediately suspect is strung out on crack.  His eyes bug out of his head and his glare has been starched on me since I first stepped on the bus.  He wears a navy blue beanie cap and a black leather jacket so worn it looks like acid wash jeans.  His hiking boots are in impressive condition compared to the rest of his clothing, pants are faded and have a hole in the right knee; his legs are crossed right over left.

The guy who offered me the gum is talking to the bus driver, they appear to be old friends.  He has to move out of the way when the bus hisses to a stop in front of McDonald’s as a heard of homeless get off, perhaps gathering for a meeting of the Association of Under Overpass Dwellers.  The bug eyed crack guy stays on; he must on have been invited.  

A woman with fried blond hair shaped in the classic styling of Pauly from The Jersey Shore steps on the bus.  She has a cart she wildly wields behind her.  I had to quickly and tightly tuck my legs under my seat to avoid being knee capped.  The first row of forward facing seats did not escape the collision, rolling her cart like an angry drunk teenager on prom night.

The other woman who got on sits in the seat directly next to the crack head. It is difficult to get a good look at her behind Breakfast at Tiffany’s sunglasses, gloves, baggy jacket and brown Russian rabbit fur hat.  “I’m sorry I’m sitting right next to you,” she says to her seatmate.  There are two empty seats on either side of me and they are strangers sharing a double seat. 

“Tha’s okay,” the crack head said simply and kindly.

“What’s yo’r name agaaayun’, hun?”  Her accent was less southern as something else more familiar that I can’t put my finger on. 

I got off the bus at a thrift store; it was time for a change of scenery.  I went in knowing I would have a long wait before the next bus rolled around.  I browsed the things unwanted and had similar sensation one feels when they pace the aisle’s of animal shelters-I wanted to take them all home.  Each piece had a small sign of abuse but every crack or scratch made it unique and is beautiful in a way that only a true hoarder would appreciate.

Where were these objects before they found their way to these shelves?  I pick up an orange stick-free frying pan-it was hardly used.  I stood there turning it over and over thinking of the reasons this could have possibly been given up.  It could have belonged to a newly wed couple who replaced everything with their new loot.  Maybe it belonged to someone who died unexpectedly and it was part of the rest of the belongings that were left behind from the estate sale. 

I cross the street to find a bus stop but a shop called “Out of The Past” distracts me.  It is basically an antique/junk shop.  A faceless banjo is piled high amongst rusty coffee cans, barn wood frames and dusty oilcans that were no less than thirty years old.  You have to sift through everything to find anything.  It’s actually a great shop the owner however is a crotchety lady. 

Her hair looks as though it was last brushed days ago.  It’s thinning and mostly white with a few thick silver streaks.  When you come into her shop she immediately asks, “have you been in here before?” you say no.  “You’ll notice nothin’s priced.”  She says with an impatient breath that has inhaled too many cigarettes.  “I’m old! And I can’t keep track of it all!”  She attempts a playful laugh but it’s painful to be so genuine, she would rather that you not be in her shop at all.

There are mountains of records and jars from an alchemist’s dream.  The lady follows me and I pick up a record to see if she’ll leave me alone.  She thinks I’m going to steal something so she makes herself accessible.  There is only one milk crate of records I can reach, the rest have posters and clothes and costume jewelry piled on.  The owner comes over and starts moving things around like an embarrassed housewife moving the laundry off of the couch at the arrival of an unexpected guest.

“Oh, I’m sorry about the mess, we’ve just come out of the Christmas rush.” She doesn’t know I’ve been here before, and I know better than to believe that her shop is usually clean.

I was finally left alone at the sound of the doorbell chime, “Have you guys been here before?”  The joyous chatter that barged through the door quickly dissipates to uncomfortable whispers.

I sneak out of the store and find the bus stop.  There are so many people on the bus I have to sit passed the rear doors.  Catty corner from me is an Asian man with matted shaggy white hair down to his shoulders.  His hands go in and out of his pea green vest, which does not match his orange, red and grey horizontal striped sweater. 

At the man’s feet was a large grey cooler, what was in it?  He looked uncomfortable as though he was hung over.  He got off at the Burnet Road Market, which wasn’t open.  I’m relieved to know I am not the only person on the bus without a true destination.

 

He Meant, “There Is A Lord!”

December 23, 2011

            It is very cold outside.  I’m sure it’s not below thirty-seven degrees but it’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything below fifty.  I didn’t check the bus schedule before I left so it is difficult to judge my wait time.   There is someone already at the stop, which is usually a good sign that there will be a bus rolling around soon.

            The person at the stop has their jacket hood jammed so far on their head I couldn’t discern race or gender.  I haven’t been standing here long and the hood turns to me, “You know when the next one’s comin’ along?”  A man in his late forties slurs to me.  It’s always more difficult to tell in the winter time whether someone is homeless or not for we all look like we’re carrying everything we own underneath big jackets.    

            “No.” I said.

            “I got off the other one and missed this one,” he pauses and takes a breath, “and another passed by the other way.”

            “Maybe that means we don’t have long to wait.”  I don’t know what to say.  I don’t wan to encourage more talk between us.  I’m so cold.

            I see the bus come around the bend and I step up to the curb and say with muted excitement, “The bus is here!”

            “Oh there is another world!”

            I don’t know what he means by that.  I tried to figure it out by listening to him longer.

            “I was in Indiana for about…” he stretched out the word about as though he was doing tricky math calculating the years, decades? that he was in Indiana for, “three minutes.”  He laughed and his speckled black and grey, prickly beard rose up with his smile.  His teeth were pretty straight with an antique patina color.  “I’ve got to get my phone turned on so I can hear the news.”  He looks at the ground and sighs, “I almost don’t want to turn it on.”

            “So get a new phone number and start over.” I laugh nervously at my own suggestion.  He looks very serious now.

            “I’ve gotta know what she’s having.  Even though I already know it’s a girl.”  He puts his right hand over his heart.  “I know it’s a girl, but I’ve gotta know.”

December 20, 2011

It is nearly January in South Texas, but it feels how October does in Colorado.  I can’t believe there are only a few days until Christmas.  It hardly exists to me besides the fact that work is more hectic.  I wasn’t ready to go in to work today so I sent my manager a text saying that I missed my bus and I would be in ASAP.  I only assumed I missed the bus, I wasn’t going to hurry to wait thirty minutes.  I sent my lie via text and in doing so locked myself into a karmic rendezvous to miss the bus later.  Now I don’t have to lie about the public chariot passing by without a notion of my existence.  Because it did when I actually went to catch it.

The wind puffs but the sun feels nice against my chilled body between puffs.  A blue Chevy truck passes the stop and the chocolate lab in the back barks at me.  He’s barking at everything really, I can still hear him down the street. 

Most of the cars that go by do not have any passengers.  I would wager that the majority of them are driving by my work.  I’m not a person who accepts rides from strangers, but it makes me wonder how busy the traffic would be if you could only use your car when you have a passenger.  The Chevy with the lab barks by again.

From my stop on Burnet Road I watch a guy across the street at the carwash spray the bed of his truck.  A blue plastic bottle, a Wal-Mart shopping bag and other bits of trash blew out and crashed on the dirty wet cement.   That is where they were when he drove off.

When the bus comes I step on and say hi to the driver who looks like C-lo Green.  It can be unsettling sometimes when there are so few people on the bus.  There are only two now.  There is a guy in his early twenties carrying a curtain rod.  He stared at me and I felt awkward- why couldn’t he stare at the other passenger, a guy farther in the back.  Even though he was well dressed, I think a pork pie hat would have tied his outfit together-despite the risk that he would then look like he stepped out of the fifties. 

The guy with the curtain rod gets off at the stop in front of Ross.  I couldn’t help but notice he had a wedding ring.  I invent what or whom his driving force could have been to take an awkward journey to run an errand that lacks masculinity.  I imagine a very small, very pretty and very pregnant girl who wants what she wants when she wants it.  The consequences of saying no are far worse than a bus ride with a curtain rod.

An elderly lady gets on.  She is short and all I can see is her ratty gray and black hair.  She reminds me of a typical Halloween witch fumbling with her bus pass.  Mexican Buddy Holly followed her on wearing a black hoodie with gold writing.  He went directly to the back of the bus and the witch in pink sweat pants sat a few seats to my right.

The bus lifted off and the old lady began to mumble, only a few words broke out of her mouth that were audible and clear.   At first I thought she was asking me a question.  I ignored her though, and she continued to hex.  

My attention was only taken away from her incantations when a very large and very sloppy man got on the bus, straining the hydraulics.  He wore gray and black plaid pajama pants and, to his credit, wore a jacket that complimented the pants well.  He decided to sit across from me.  The button on the fly had long given up that war and escaped the restraints of the thread.  When the large man sat down his fly spread wide open and his grey belly button stared at me lamely through bangs of belly hair.  The man looked at his belly, looked at me, then looked out the front window to his right.