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Bus Stop
by N. Joy Lutton

“Der’s too many peoples on dis bus,” he stood up and shouted. “Dey neet to get off!” His hand was holding the scraps of what remained of stonewashed denim, bundling the fabric above his crotch. “Nuffin but a bunch of sinners and scum!”

The tourists and transplants all turned to look, while locals bobbed to the beat blasting from their earbuds, clutched their cells tighter to their ears, or brought books closer, trying to block out the sight, sound, and smell.

“Get out you headthens, get out!”

“Mommy, what’s wrong with that man?” a small voice asked from the front of the bus. A murmur filled the air before the voice continued. “Well if he’s sick why doesn’t a doctor give him some med’cine so he feels good?

“Ya bunch of bastards need to get off my bus now, gad-dammet!”

All the bodies in the bus seemed to be inching away from the man, as he stumbled up the aisle like a sick animal.

“Fine, havvet your way ya assholes. I needa piss and since ya won’t get off my bus…” His mocha-colored hand fumbled down the front of his pants, digging, while women gasped, turning their children’s sight out the windows.

A woman in her Sunday best in the back of the bus cried out, “Oh sweet Jes-” as the bus screamed and stuttered to a halt. The man’s hand popped from his pants as he tumbled down to the floor.

“Alright, buddy. That’s your stop.”

The bum stood up and walked back, scooped up a dusty garbage bag before finding his way to the front of the bus. The man turned to the bus driver after looking out the windshield window. “O’Farrell and Jones, eh?” His bag-less hand grasped the fabric, holding his pants in place as he slowly slid down the bus steps. “Bunch of heathens,” he said to the bus driver before stepping off. “I don’t know why you let ‘em on my bus, Al.”  He took a final step and cackled out, smiling as he said, “Ah, see you next time, pal. Maybe next time, I’ll make it to Leavenworth.”

The bus rattled on as the man cackled down the street.