Tales From The Bus Stop


The bus was late and the day was deep, hot and lovely. the sun high low hemming the spring skyline and my nose was ‘Claritin.’

The swim had been good with only one facial cramp and the light was sweet through the polarized lenses of the glassed making the greens greener and the blues bluer.

The traffic was bumper-packed as the last of the oilies and cattlemen roamed home and there she was.

I would not have noticed her except her eyes met mine and they looked like pity. She was a saran wrapped doll of any age really with bleached white hair of a length that was indeterminate except that I could not see where it ended in the frame of the car window as the sun cut through the screens in a direct hit on the falling evening. I am not sure if she knew I could see her also.

She was wearing pearls and gold and silk as the traffic stalled right before me. She answered a cell phone and perfect white chiclet teeth flashed in the sun as it bounced around her golden beauty both at once plastic and sculpted by a master doctor. Perfect symmetry. She kept staring at me as the car passed an I looked back at her although not directly. I did not want to ruin her moment of poverty tourism.

Pity.

What was the pity for? My wild wooly curly white blond halo undyed and unhidden by artifice: my age? Was it my face? My face devoid of MacMakeup and salon painting? Was it my walker with the homemade seat cover in a wild pink and green of scraps left from another project? What was this pity for? Was it my crooked stand from my crooked back or was it the fact I waited for a ride, by the road, like the local homeless bus riders?

Maybe I will never know?

I am glad she has a hubby or a sugar daddy or an inheritance that gives her all that but I did not understand why she looked at me like I was lacking in the things of life. Life was all around me and it was amazing!

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