Tales From The Bus Stop

The wet heat spackled the bus stop squatters with sweat. She sat in the power chair watching two clouds reach out to each other in the broad blue sky above the buildings. The clouds curled towards each other as if to try to make love in the almost barely present huffs of air and far above a twister formed and unformed in the sunshine. Although she was mostly deaf as deaf goes in one who once heard birds and orchestras and sang arias with her now dead father…

she shook her head.

There was an odd tinkle in the clear blue as the clouds tried so hard to impress one another with dancing shapes of T-Rex skeletons and eagles faces and the angelic music pelted down softly in her one good ear. It was a sound that was barely there. Surely it was angels?

She smiled at nothing and looked around from behind the dark UV lenses.

There was a boy with a cardboard sign and a beat up portable keyboard that sat in his lap. Although people who were beggars did not attempt to look nice this boy did look nice. He wore a white, pressed shirt and one fake rhinestone in his ear. His lips moved softly and his close-cropped black hair had stars shaven in it. A ring of homeless people sat around him while he played and expected nothing from those who had nothing. He opened his eyes, dark and dancing like the clouds, and smiled at the audience before the number 38 that went downtown swept them away in a whoosh of loud rumble…

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!