At Least They're Committed

She was already seated as I plopped down in the aisle-facing bench on the RTD. I didn’t notice her until the bus started rolling and I whipped out my compress to finish my make up. One can never quite get it just right at home! Regardless, there she was on the peripheral as I smudged on more eye liner to compensate for my darker hair. The lone person in the middle of the three-seater, her girth took up more than its share of the space and her position — left leg bent and resting on the red, blue and green cushion, right leg outstretched — accounted for even more. She’s at least 5 years younger than me but she doesn’t know that. She is motionless, like a rabbit in the yard hoping you’ll look right past, her toady eyes staring as if waiting for her cue to bolt.

Unaware that my vision could reach beyond the compact, her eyes never left me; sizing me up. Was it curiosity? Envy? Contempt? Her pasty pallor, icy glare and disheveled roan mane clipped atop her head oozed of self loathing. I’m familiar with that, and, despite her “no one better fucking sit by me” positioning, I decided against radical red lipstick and smiled at her, snapping the mirror shut. Without moving, she shifted her eyes away. Contempt. She despises me and everyone like me, writing in her mind my story of ineptitude, greed, stupidity and vanity to offset the banality of her otiose existance in the same way I now am unscrupulously writing hers.

I looked toward the rear of the bus. The Fred Flintstone dude in a front facing bench, his legs spread too wide as if he has something to be proud of, cracked a smile as he looked at Page 2 of the Denver Post Sports section. It was Monday. He must be a Jaguars fan. No matter, when I say ‘crack’ I mean precisely that. He had no lips, his weathered flesh pulled out like an opera house curtain to expose artificially whitened teeth. His story is all about him, always. He’s a 50something ex jock, I surmise with no right, who thinks that any woman he did in his youth still pines for his loins, his touch. He thinks he’s still hot. Not for me to judge, but were I to, I’d say ‘not.’ Like Toady, he is motionless except for the creepy grin that slides out and back as he reads.

Maybe it’s because the weekend was too short, maybe it’s because it’s overcast, but the passengers sit as still as dolls propped on wooden chairs waiting for imaginary tea. The exception, I note, looking to the front of the bus, is two middle-aged men sitting across the isle from each other in the front-facers, chatting about things I cannot hear nor care to hear as, earbuds firmly in place, I keep on searching for a sign in the middle of the night with the Climax Blues Band. Male friendship is a wonderful thing! From their tone, only semi-familiar, I think maybe they know each other from church. How lovely the networking opportunities that burgeon through the bonds of faith!

As the first bus stop edges near, one friend stands to leave as does Toady, who cast nary a glare my way upon her retreat. The exiting man shakes the hand of the other and bids him a wonderful week. I smile. Nice. Yet as the bus pulls away, the man who remains looks out the window and waves to the other and the first nearly skipps as he waves back. I change my mind. They met at a male bath house.

At my bus stop, Fred Flintstone unapologetically pushes ahead of me to get off. I chuckle. Another Monday writing stories on the bus.

 (I have way too many tense shifts in this one. I’ll have to work on that later if I decide I care enough. heh)