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.
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