Ive been listening a lot to packed bus conversations.
I guess thats due a lot to the fact that Ive been taking the bus to and from work as of late, and I take the bus at the rush hours from and to the downtown core.
Generally, we really dont have much to say, do we?
Some of the time, its just one girl on a cell:
oh my god Theresa, my supervisor is such a bitch, well, god. Shes just such a cow
Pause. Peoples eyes are open, but everybody has the I am not listening to this conversation even though its the only thing that is making any noise over the hiss of the wet wheels of this bus speeding over this rain soaked pavement look on their face, and the windows are all fogged up by our breath. Its early, and the humidity is that Sunday morning church smell of mothball packed mink coats, talcum powder and the overpowering stench of your own Hai Karate.
no, shes just a cow, but fuck, whatever, shes being replaced by some other chick next week, so thats good I guess..
I think its better when its another language pretty much whispered.
That couple sometimes crushing into there beside you, under that armpit you are desperately trying to NOT thrust into their faces as you grasp the only spot available on the overhead bar above them, the one you kept hitting your head on (finally figured out the public transit duck move).
The couple who in your glances you think might be in a new Love, staring at each other like that or maybe theyre both new here from the country theyve called home for the last 22 years of their lives, and this is an alien friendship here in the strangeness that transcends our own chuckling handshakes and shoulder slaps. Maybe theyre just really close friends, but that crazy tongue
But then you come home, you take the dog out, he loves it out there, hes doin good on the stairs, hes loving it out there. Walkin extra blocks, and its back home.
Unlocking the door, pine.
you marvel at how good you feel when your apartment is this clean and sparse, this is a good place, a good space, smellin like pine like this Murphys oil soap and you decide to indulge and you open the cupboard, unpack and then pack the bong.
Opening the windows to exhale, a cold wind sucks in and down in a swirl around your legs, and youre thinking of those sweaty windows on the bus, and youre thinking of that couple under your armpit
Whispering to each other in that song, such a beautifully soft tongue roll with that guttural stop and never blinking from that stare reflecting inches away.
Take it from here, a couple more small characters, and then its your perspective as you approach the intersection.
Its slow motion, you see an SUV speeding toward the intersection, a Lincon navigator, and you are approaching, racing towards their red light.. not stopping..
NO.. WAIT
No, a stretch limo Lincoln navigator yeah..
The bus gets broadsided by this bigass Lincoln navigator stretch limo
The bus gets rolled, toasted, and the woman on the cell, shes thrown out and crushed.
Turns out, she was recently married, was a devout Christian and was pregnant.
The couple behind you, the Cambodians or the Libyans or the kids from Manitoba, they were brother and sister, and had been apart for the last 16 years of their lives, since they were 3 and 4 respectively.
(She lives.)
Ooo and that would be all shocking and wrong and this morning I heard a Gregorian chant from the 1400s and it reminded me a bit of John Lennons Give Peace a Chance and my brain train chugged off to the New York assassination visualization and I stopped writing for a bit.
Fuck.
I wonder if Paul or George or Ringo were afraid for their lives for a few years, I bet they were.
Hmm.
No, I think Id rather keep believing that everything happens for a reason, thankyou.
Bitchy supervisor that needs to be famous or not.
I guess thats due a lot to the fact that Ive been taking the bus to and from work as of late, and I take the bus at the rush hours from and to the downtown core.
Generally, we really dont have much to say, do we?
Some of the time, its just one girl on a cell:
oh my god Theresa, my supervisor is such a bitch, well, god. Shes just such a cow
Pause. Peoples eyes are open, but everybody has the I am not listening to this conversation even though its the only thing that is making any noise over the hiss of the wet wheels of this bus speeding over this rain soaked pavement look on their face, and the windows are all fogged up by our breath. Its early, and the humidity is that Sunday morning church smell of mothball packed mink coats, talcum powder and the overpowering stench of your own Hai Karate.
no, shes just a cow, but fuck, whatever, shes being replaced by some other chick next week, so thats good I guess..
I think its better when its another language pretty much whispered.
That couple sometimes crushing into there beside you, under that armpit you are desperately trying to NOT thrust into their faces as you grasp the only spot available on the overhead bar above them, the one you kept hitting your head on (finally figured out the public transit duck move).
The couple who in your glances you think might be in a new Love, staring at each other like that or maybe theyre both new here from the country theyve called home for the last 22 years of their lives, and this is an alien friendship here in the strangeness that transcends our own chuckling handshakes and shoulder slaps. Maybe theyre just really close friends, but that crazy tongue
But then you come home, you take the dog out, he loves it out there, hes doin good on the stairs, hes loving it out there. Walkin extra blocks, and its back home.
Unlocking the door, pine.
you marvel at how good you feel when your apartment is this clean and sparse, this is a good place, a good space, smellin like pine like this Murphys oil soap and you decide to indulge and you open the cupboard, unpack and then pack the bong.
Opening the windows to exhale, a cold wind sucks in and down in a swirl around your legs, and youre thinking of those sweaty windows on the bus, and youre thinking of that couple under your armpit
Whispering to each other in that song, such a beautifully soft tongue roll with that guttural stop and never blinking from that stare reflecting inches away.
Take it from here, a couple more small characters, and then its your perspective as you approach the intersection.
Its slow motion, you see an SUV speeding toward the intersection, a Lincon navigator, and you are approaching, racing towards their red light.. not stopping..
NO.. WAIT
No, a stretch limo Lincoln navigator yeah..
The bus gets broadsided by this bigass Lincoln navigator stretch limo
The bus gets rolled, toasted, and the woman on the cell, shes thrown out and crushed.
Turns out, she was recently married, was a devout Christian and was pregnant.
The couple behind you, the Cambodians or the Libyans or the kids from Manitoba, they were brother and sister, and had been apart for the last 16 years of their lives, since they were 3 and 4 respectively.
(She lives.)
Ooo and that would be all shocking and wrong and this morning I heard a Gregorian chant from the 1400s and it reminded me a bit of John Lennons Give Peace a Chance and my brain train chugged off to the New York assassination visualization and I stopped writing for a bit.
Fuck.
I wonder if Paul or George or Ringo were afraid for their lives for a few years, I bet they were.
Hmm.
No, I think Id rather keep believing that everything happens for a reason, thankyou.
Bitchy supervisor that needs to be famous or not.
threestares:
your story is seductive, like a tale told at night; it is familiar and i know where i am. and then you pull the covers off and i feel exposed and afraid because i know what you are saying is true.