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.