It’s the last day of the self-inflicted 30-day car deprivation experiment. If today were the first day, I would quit.  It was a million degrees today with humidity that felt like an August afternoon in New Orleans after a heavy night of hurricanes (the cocktail that is).

Swimming through the hot haze to the bus stop stole all my energy, and when I got to the bus stop I sat on the concrete bench and stared…at nothing.  Maybe today I was officially assimilated into the bus culture and assumed the vacant look many bus riders boast.  When the #3 arrived, I peeled my chocolate colored tulle-lined skirt from my moist legs and rubbed my fingers over the interesting imprint it left on my legs.  Note to self: cotton skirts, not synthetic crinoline - no matter how cute and seemingly seasonally suited.

Living in the allergy capitol of the world, the #3 chauffeured me to the allergist for a weekly injection to ward off ragweed, elm and all things green and growing.  Keeping on schedule I had four minutes to spare as I approached the bus stop near the hospital. This is not my usual territory, and immediately my senses were attacked – each one of them.  Fight? Flee?

I have the good sense not to look a dog in the eye; so, I assume the nonchalant, minding-my-own-business attitude, which is a tried-and-true behavior in BusLand. However, the smell overtakes me and my gag reflex is triggered. Channeling control and mastery over my body I deal with the smell that is some combination of ashtray, dead carcass, and human stink. Peripheral vision tells me a man is sitting behind me. Since I can’t turn my head and risk a violent, “What you staring at, bitch?” accompanied by large arm movements, it seems the man has matted hair.

Still overcoming the olfaction assault, my audition is attacked.  Stinkpot’s traveling partner is angrily speaking to someone on her phone, and after she hangs up begins a tirade:

“Stupid mother fucker gonna call my ass and tell me ‘bout takin’ my kid. Custody, my ass! I'm 'onna give him some custody.  Sum bitch done hired a lawyer. Fucking mother fucker don’t know shit about how I can take care of somebody. (No pause) I’m hungry!  Give me that –---- You mother fucker! Done eat up that food (slapping Stinkpot).”

Stinkpot pitifully retorts, “I ain’t eat up nobody’s food. That bird done came and eat it up. I’m telling you that bird jus' came here and…and, I tried to stop him, but he just ate ever’ bit of it.”

Feeling bold, I sneak a peek at Stinkpot and his partner. They have gotten up from the round bus bench and are leaving. Their backs are to me so it’s safe to indulge in a good long stare before they are out of sight.  The woman holds a long unlit cigarette and uses the same hand to push back her stringy hair. Still yelling at Stinkpot over the food, she adjusts what looks to be an orthopedic sock and waddles down the sidewalk. Perhaps they have no need for the bus after all?

Taking a deep breath I look down at the ground. Several pools of expectorate look back at me. I pick up my straw bag and consider dropping it into the trash bin but decide to wait until I get home.

Comments

[Polly Poppins]

Please reconsider the Vespa.

[bitsy parker]

Oh, but Polly, I would love-love a cute Vespa. However, the law might get me for strapping two little people on the back.

[Holmes]

30 days without a car and with kids in Austin...you definitely deserve some kind of Badass Award. Any big conclusions?

[Zane]

YOU...are hysterical! I don't even know where to begin. Walk of Shame, or the Secret's Slipped or "Dr. Dr. Dr. You're brain's so big".

And...why exactly are you not writing a book? Is it the money you'd make, cause I know it's all about altruism with you...SMILE. Or the fame. What?!?

GWTP. Write a book. Make some money. Make some people laugh. Is that so tough? Is it so bad? I just want a signed proof copy, s'all.

[Polly Poppins]

I'm sure someone has invented a sidecar?