Shitty writing at 5am while watching Hope Floats and Feeling Lame

I’ve been riding the bus two and from work for the past four weeks. Today, across from me sits inside out wig lady and in front of me, pee your pants guy. My car went missing a month ago and earlier the insurance company called to tell me they plan to continue to investigate the matter. I think about riding around with the inhabitants from the island of misfit toys for at least another month when the bus stops and people file in.

The first thing you learn as a young female using public transportation in the Los Angeles area is you’re better off having herpes. When people hear you’re stuck on the bus or the less-than-stellar metro they treat you as though you’ve acquired the ebola version of a social disease. It also doesn’t help that you smell like bus people at the end of your ride. Nothing says I have social magnetism like the stench of hobo piss.

While I run away with my thoughts a man walks up and tells me, “Move over, lady.” Actually it was more of a command. Usually, I would pretend to be deaf, dumb, mute or bitchy, but today I scoot over and make way for quite possibly the world’s rudest human.

I look out the window. The world is a magical swirl of colors and sunshine. I smile at passing cars. My face, a rarely watered sunflower, screams RESCUE ME FROM THIS HELL. I try vigilantly to ignore the man next to me, but he persists, “Where you stay at?” He asks. I turn my face to him, pouting slightly and say, “At home.”

As I say this, I finally get a good look at him. His neck’s covered with a huge tattoo of a spider. He seems to need a delousing comb and a good wash, as the collar around his white t-shirt is a brownish-grey and looks like it used to be the outer ring of a crop circle. Half of his front tooth has been snapped off & his eyes are flat, wide and alert. He licks his tongue over the missing shutter in his mouth, grinning at me, “Too bad you're cars gone and you're stuck riding the bus with people like me,” he places his hand on my thigh while flashing a knife with his other hand. He waits to see my reaction, pausing a beat, “Dontcha think?”