The Man on the Bus

           Hand sanitizer and or some bacteria force field is recommended before boarding the beast known as a metro bus. Public transportation is both convenient and inconvenient at the same time. You either arrive just in time to catch it or late and watch it drive off, leaving you bitter and above all else late for work/class/life. It is a box where cold, and flu germs hide and wait until you, the unsuspecting victim, board the cesspool.

           Once in this box, you come into contact with a variety of individuals. On bus 68 there is a man I often refer to as, Musical Candy Man. He is an older gentleman, with unruly hair usually covered by an ivy cap made of tweed. His jacket, also made of tweed, has darker brown patches on the elbows. He often sits upfront, and if you sit near him, your nose will be greeted with the scent of cigars. He will offer you a piece of candy as you walk by. When I do, I politely decline. I know he might mean well, but if you were offered a questionable piece of candy, wouldn’t you reject it? One of the first things a child is taught is, what is their phone number and address and, oh, never take candy from a stranger, even if they appear to be nice.

           When he isn’t offering candy to strangers, he is singing. And not a low hum that only he can hear either, but a full belt out of some classic Motown, usually verses from My Girl and Build me up Buttercup. It is an enjoyable performance, all things considered. His voice is hoarse, probably from smoking, but it’s almost as if you are listening to a vinyl record. If you listen carefully, you might be able to ignore the scratchiness and hear the Gaye he probably was in his youth. He is aware that he is aboard a bus; I assume he has doctor appointments to keep. Seeing as he boards the bus at a stop located in the Med Center. I’ve only ever seen him get off the bus when it stops near Luby’s. I never see anyone accompany him on the bus. However, several nurses or other elderly passengers recognize and converse with him until they arrive at their stops. He is a strange character but one of the more comforting passengers. Sadly, I don’t see him on my route anymore. I hope it’s because he takes a different bus and is still singing on offering his fellow bus passengers a piece of candy and a bit of traveling music to entertain them.

-KMV-

I’ve had four addresses in my life, and each of them has molded me in some way. Home is usually described as a place where you feel safe, a place where family gathers. It doesn’t necessarily have to be an actual house. Home could also be referred to as the town or city you grew up in. For me, growing up in a small town, I was sheltered from all the horrible things that happen in the world. I felt safe, “bad” things never happened, or they were just well hidden.  So now I’m living at my fourth address, and it’s located in the 4^th largest city in America. Transitioning from small town to big city took some time to get used to.

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Parking in Houston is a hassle. On nights like these you wish teleporting was possible to avoid the disappointment a full parking lot shoves on you. The crooked path is always littered with chewed gum that hardened and is now permanently part of the concrete. You trip over the same broken side walk while making your way to its guarded archway.  Doors open and inviting, it wouldn’t turn you away. The magenta paint that coated the outside is chipped and the remains of flyers that were plastered on the sides still leave their mark, like a stubborn barcode sticker you can’t seem to remove from the side of your favorite cup.

Greeted by red walls, mounted paintings, neon signs flashing, cocktails, and your choice of poison, you’re still able to notice that the concrete floor was stripped of tiles. I imagined it once as a checkerboard. But these individual squares of adhesive prance around the floor and only adds to the scheme of things. It resembles an old hopscotch court that is hugged by a wall of pinball machines you can’t avoid. The lights blare and the sound the ball makes as you send the numbers spinning keeps you in place quarters in hand. You eventually give up and grow tired of standing. Chairs and tables are always taken, once you vacate it, it is lost. The narrowness makes you a tad dizzy and when it’s packed you have to crawl your way through the crowds, almost sitting on a couple of laps just to get to the end.  Smoke cheats its way in through the back door. And you escape, only to walk into clouds of it upon stepping on to the patio.  A few chairs are scattered, spread around the small yard but they add more when the time calls for it. Still, that doesn’t guarantee you a spot. Nothing is a guarantee except for a night of intrigue and good company.

-KMV-

I’ve fought many battles in my life. The one that remains fresh in my memory is the last fight where my sister and I used more than words to hurt one another.

We both stand there in the hallway yelling at the top of our lungs. I was victorious the last time so I refuse to stand down this time and I’m betting she won’t admit defeat so easily either. But what do you expect. We are sisters. We continue yelling insult after insult, our voices overlap and I no longer realize what I’m shouting.  I just hear white noise yet I can’t seem to stop. I noticed her eyes fill with tears and it is too late to take back what has been said. There has always been an invisible line that we as sisters dare not cross. But I manage to cross that line within minutes. Once I glimpse the first tear slide down her cheek, I know she has won. Her brown round eyes look at me with such hurt and betrayal. Her tears are merely a distraction; the crossed line was just ammo to make her tears that much stronger. She is a worthy adversary, tears are my weakness. She may have already won the battle, but there is no sense in letting her claim victory before I’ve had a chance to change it. She is done with yelling and lunges for me. My eyes begin to tear up as well, mostly because of the pain I feel as I hit the ground but partly because I’m afraid my words have actually wounded her. She is older and stronger than I am and succeeds in pinning me to the ground.

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