Bus fares had gone up again, and along with the higher rates came the usual one-two of schedule changes and reduced service. The bus to work that used to run every twenty minutes now came once an hour, then some days it didn’t come at all. And when it skipped a run, everyone on the route was not only late getting where they were going, but in a lousy mood when they got there.

“They don’t fuck you a little,” was how it was explained to me by a guy at the stop who regularly initiated small talk. His name was Gutierrez, and he was alright. Early 40s, black, bald. Though not always a jacket and tie man, he paid attention to how he dressed. He liked to put himself out there as a man on the move, making a point of shaking my hand each time we met. He worked over the phone in boiler room mortgage refinancing, and the grave tone of his frequent shop talk made it clear making money was something that was important to him. He did well for himself, to hear him tell it. But I wasn’t entirely convinced when he said it was the savings on gas money that kept him on public transportation.

“I’m about ready to turn around and head home,” he announced as he scanned the horizon for the bus. It was already late enough to probably not be coming. The next day was a holiday, but this year it fell on a Wednesday, leaving everyone feeling screwed out of a three day weekend. Particularly Gutierrez.

“The thing is,” he continued, “I’ve got two clients expecting calls from me today. But one of them’s not ’til 6:30! I might just go in and get all their information, then leave. Do those calls from home.”

“Yeah, but if you’re gonna take a day, wouldn’t you rather take the day after off, instead?” I asked.

“You’re right about that,” he said, weighing his options. “I might need to! You have to be careful with taking days off, though. This one lady I worked with? She was a former dope addict or something. She told people, I guess. But she was on her way; she was pulling down some big checks.”

“I’ve worked sales with people in recovery before,” I said. “They tend to be very motivated.”

“Well, also they’re used to hustling!” he chuckled gravely. “That’s what it was with this lady, I’m pretty sure. She was at work last Monday and she said, ‘I’m having an allergic reaction.’ She showed everybody her arms, and you could see she was. She’s out Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday… But she never calls in. Then she comes in on Friday (we get paid every Friday) and she’s like, ‘Are the checks here yet?’ They said, ‘Where you been all week?’ She said, ‘Well, Tuesday I had to go to the hospital. Then Wednesday…’”

He frowned.

“It’s terrible, and I’m not saying she’s lying, but somebody from the office actually had seen her on Wednesday, and they saw her walking down Hollywood Boulevard, kissing up on her man. But she says, ‘On Wednesday I was coming out of the hospital, and I was assaulted. These two men pulled me into an alley, and they raped me. I was raped.’” He raised his palms. “Like I said, I’m not saying she’s lying, but that other lady saw her…” His eyebrow arched.

“I’m not sure where exactly your head would have to be, to be looking for an excuse and jump right to that,” I said.

He waved off any uncertainty.

“She had a relapse or something, that’s what it was. Anyway, they weren’t having it,” he assured me. “When she said that, they said, ‘Well, what happened Thursday?’”

Television monitors had lately become standard equipment on city buses, one at the front and one in the rear. This guaranteed no one was spared the blare of low-rent advertising and inane short programming at those times of day when you’re least in need of either.

“Get rich quick schemes,” Gutierrez said, nodding to the TV as he stood to exit. “That’s all they run, all day on these things.” On the screen, a computer-animated fox behind a desk blinked dead, beady eyes, robotically extolling the importance of getting in early on property foreclosures.

Once we were into North Hollywood, the crowd thinned and I found an open seat near the rear door. I sat on the aisle and rested my bag on the seat by the window.

An elderly Asian woman boarded at the next stop. At first glance she appeared frail, but she was limber and energetic, moving with the weightless bounce of a marionette in performance. She wore a matched outfit that hung loose on her tiny frame, though it might have been designed with a child in mind. Something between a fleece tracksuit and pyjamas, it was downy and pink except for a white patch on the front that showed a cartoon zebra standing near an orange tree.

Her grey straw hair was cropped short in a severe, masculine style that left one-inch bangs on her forehead. Her ears were framed by sharp ninety degree angles that left a wide expanse of bald, freckled skin on either side of her head. It gave her an almost Mayan appearance.

She marched down the aisle, her stride pure scruffy determination. She stopped at my seat and stared at me. Despite her petite size, she made for an arresting figure.

Presuming she wanted to sit down, I took my bag in my lap and slid over to the window, offering her the open seat.

“Yes?” She asked.

“Please,” I confirmed.

She twinkled in appreciation and turned to settle in. But instead of facing front, she set herself down daintily sideways. She then inched her tiny rear back and back and back again until she was pressed firmly to me, shamelessly reclining against my side as she would against the arm of a sofa. If in motion she looked like a marionette, resting on me she felt even more like one, all balsa wood pieces and thin doll clothes.

Once settled, she turned to face me, a playful defiance in her expression. Her features were tiny, her eyes gentle brown triangles sculpted into the fair skin at her forehead. Her mouth was a hyphen, flat and abbreviated. Though she was an old lady, her face was soft and unlined. Small jowls at the bottom of her cheeks weighted her delicate face as if to keep it from floating away.

I smiled at her cheekiness, and her eyes lit up, beaming delightedly. She brought her hands together ecstatically in a single silent clap. Crooking one leg under herself, she let the other dangle. Small enough that her loose foot hung several inches off the floor, it kicked and swung freely with the rhythm of the ride.

An olive-skinned man near the front watched us and grinned, entertained. The encounter was proving to be captivating stuff for a number of passengers.

“She likes you, man,” he said. I shrugged.

“Miss,” he called to her, “you can sit over here if you like. There’s plenty of room here at the front.” He indicated the several empty seats around him.

The lady looked up at me.  

“I should move?” She wondered. Her English was halting, but her voice had music in it, each syllable ringing a crystal bell.

“You’re welcome to stay,” I said.

Her ancient face bloomed, and she happily nestled against me once again.

A moment later she stood up suddenly and shivered, shaking the way a duck shakes the water off. Then she sat back down, cradled comfortably once more at my side. She turned her face up to mine, her little doll’s eyes beaming.

“You look like Elvis,” she told me.

copyright,  © 2007 Wyatt Doyle

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