Bus Ride
Swinging my legs like a little girl, legs clothed with sophisticated black jeans and pointy champagne colored shoes; my actions betray me, I am a little girl. But I am a content little girl, with Rogue Wave and The Afters taking turns serenading me as the squeaky bus rumbles on.
High schoolers waltz onto the bus with all the hesitance and vibrance; relief and weariness and fun dance around the blue seats and among the American Eagle totes and white headphones. I look at my own ipod and my oversized bag and realized with some bemusement that I blend in quite well. A "four-months-ago" kind of well.
He bustles on as the bus pauses, glasses askew, out of breath and encumbered with large laundry bags. Short, awkward, middle-aged man looked around anxiously and was relieved to find an empty seat next to me. He scoots in apologetically and sighs. I smell Ivory bar soap; it was a pleasant surprise coming from such a flustered individual. He shifts away from me again and offers another quick "sorry" with a sheepish smile and I return the smile to assure him no harm is done. He then asks me the time, and I take out my phone to tell him. "3:35".
In front of me, a young mother and her child are engaged in conversation. The little girl gestures emphatically with her 4 or 5 year old arms as her mother returns her comments with observations of her own. The mother takes everything her daughter says quite seriously, and the two are oblivious to everyone else as they delight in each other. They seem mutually interested and appreciative of the other. The bus screeches and lurches, the mother looks up, and holding her black leather bag in one hand and a pink Dora the Explorer bookbag in the other, leads the child down the steps and towards their home.
I glance out the window and see a store called "Speakeasy Intercom". I almost chuckle out loud. Being the dork that I have accepted myself to be (feel free to do the same), I remember my DNY teacher talking about "speakeasy's" which were secret pubs that sprung up through the mob during the Prohibition Era. I wondered, then, if this intercom seller knew what he was calling his store, or if he was actually in cahoots with some illegal ventures in the back of his innocent intercom store. Who has ever heard of an intercom store anyway...
I look up and realize that my frantic laundry man had just gotten off. I look a bit further and I can see him half-running across the street to the laundromat. Bell Boulevard.
A few more blocks and I press the yellow strip. As I get off, the bus driver gets off right behind me. A little curious as to why he got off, I looked back and saw him placing an envelope into a mailbox that is placed conveniently by the bus stop. I look at the bus and can see a few other passengers watching in curiousity and smiling to themselves. Satisfied that I was not the only one easily amused, I skipped across the street to the 13, feeling so much cooler now that one of my few rap songs came on in the shuffle.
High schoolers waltz onto the bus with all the hesitance and vibrance; relief and weariness and fun dance around the blue seats and among the American Eagle totes and white headphones. I look at my own ipod and my oversized bag and realized with some bemusement that I blend in quite well. A "four-months-ago" kind of well.
He bustles on as the bus pauses, glasses askew, out of breath and encumbered with large laundry bags. Short, awkward, middle-aged man looked around anxiously and was relieved to find an empty seat next to me. He scoots in apologetically and sighs. I smell Ivory bar soap; it was a pleasant surprise coming from such a flustered individual. He shifts away from me again and offers another quick "sorry" with a sheepish smile and I return the smile to assure him no harm is done. He then asks me the time, and I take out my phone to tell him. "3:35".
In front of me, a young mother and her child are engaged in conversation. The little girl gestures emphatically with her 4 or 5 year old arms as her mother returns her comments with observations of her own. The mother takes everything her daughter says quite seriously, and the two are oblivious to everyone else as they delight in each other. They seem mutually interested and appreciative of the other. The bus screeches and lurches, the mother looks up, and holding her black leather bag in one hand and a pink Dora the Explorer bookbag in the other, leads the child down the steps and towards their home.
I glance out the window and see a store called "Speakeasy Intercom". I almost chuckle out loud. Being the dork that I have accepted myself to be (feel free to do the same), I remember my DNY teacher talking about "speakeasy's" which were secret pubs that sprung up through the mob during the Prohibition Era. I wondered, then, if this intercom seller knew what he was calling his store, or if he was actually in cahoots with some illegal ventures in the back of his innocent intercom store. Who has ever heard of an intercom store anyway...
I look up and realize that my frantic laundry man had just gotten off. I look a bit further and I can see him half-running across the street to the laundromat. Bell Boulevard.
A few more blocks and I press the yellow strip. As I get off, the bus driver gets off right behind me. A little curious as to why he got off, I looked back and saw him placing an envelope into a mailbox that is placed conveniently by the bus stop. I look at the bus and can see a few other passengers watching in curiousity and smiling to themselves. Satisfied that I was not the only one easily amused, I skipped across the street to the 13, feeling so much cooler now that one of my few rap songs came on in the shuffle.
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