1 AM and counting

The elderly lady held onto the well-worn greyed strap. The bus route shook at her ready-to-burst bladder while she gripped a plastic coat hanger in her blue fist. An ornate golden alligator skin, hobo bag hung off her bony shoulder rack and her breath smelled like cat litter mixed with mint paste. She couldn’t remember her phone number.

Underneath her nose sat two teens, their nails digging little greasy pattens on their iphones as the sexted and squealed (45 messages sent this weekend-  23 featuring states of undress, bra straps and thong shots, 22 highlighting drunken hugs with strange boys in senior high). Their doe-eyed faces hung blank as they photographed each other imitating the Scandinavian popstarlet 2x their age (24 years but – 180 cc of botox + 35 milligrams of bovine lactic acid under each eye, nipple and lip corner= median age appearance of 21.5 years).

1am and the total income of the bus passengers added up to $458,984 dollars. Comprised of the wages of the salaried frontline burger preperation agents and those who relied on social assistance,unemployment insurance, winnings from video lottery terminals, panhandling dollars and babysitting gigs, it was clear that this was the part of town time forgot.

Where the hell did that octonogerian get that plastic hanger?

My head rattled with thoughts. Tick tock thinking with number jumbling. The : : : kept flashing on my watch 1:00

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Where the hell did those kids get those iphones?

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This bus smells like that fruity sport water that tastes like it comes from the armpit of a grape.

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What the hell are they doing out at this hour?

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Their mothers are tucked away in their Posturepedia beds,  living the dream of the Desperate Housewives. The pool boy is like catnip to their sagging egos and their smiles hide their fear of stinking like the earth that will someday devour their beauty.

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I just wish this bus drove past the last stop and kept going. The driver would peel off the mask of a non-discript civil servant to reveal the visage of glowing, clean-pored Oprah who would then proclaim that we would all be hauled off to a place where all our dreams will come to be realized. It would be the closest to heaven I’d ever come. The rapture could open up above the skies of North Street and my soul would be redeemed on Bus 57.

Yes. I deserve this.

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What is that song? It’s AM radio worthy and features lyrics about someone’s baby wronging them somehow and somewhere. Trivial to the essence of the wailing guitar’s cries amplifying that despair at losing, loving. Never did a wah-wah pedal support such pain in such a respectable way. Well done, soft rock hair band. Well done.

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Journey? Was the song by Journey?

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REO Speedwagon?

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I need a smoke. Still smells like grape armpit.

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I puff off of my inhaler. Craving smokes makes my asthma act up. I visualize a king size as a wrap my lips around the blue plastic pocket lung-support-system. Immediately my heart skipraces and I feel alive. Chemicals sustain me. I like lipstick off my top lip and taste Red Lake #53

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3 stops and I am home.

1 AM