A woman running for a bus... Running, cussing wildly. Panting as she drags her luggage. Her arms in the air, causing the driver no distress as he pulls away leaving her in the cold garage of the bus station. Walking inside, a fire in her eyes. Her hair is too much with all her hair spray; dyed a dark blood-red it is almost purple. She wears a faux fur coat; leopard print. A black scarf wrapped around her neck and shoulders. All dolled up looking ready to attend some elitist circus ball. What is she doing here? Here, in this no good greyhound station? She brushes off, fixes her hair. Carrying a roll around suit case, the other hand adjusting her scarf. She looks something flustered inside as she composes herself. Her big eyes and perfectly made up face make an effort not to stress; she is a lady. A lady now looking for a teller. She glances around, “Ah!”. She walks over with an air of royalty, she is a high society snob at a punk rock show. She is followed closely behind by a young male; maybe 25. A hipster, punk type, with his bed head, jean jacket and smokey eyes. He could be her son, he could be her boyfriend. Maybe he works for her? They make an unusual pair.
I am sitting alone. I am waiting; like her and him and the rest of this crowd. Waiting here in this no where town greyhound station. Brief moments of purgatory. Where am I going? Where is she? Well, I am going home. Home is a busy city, an unimpressive basement apartment, a beautiful, yet fannullone wife. I’m coming from an awkward exchange with my sister and her Waspy husband. I’m not in the greatest of spirits. I don’t like borrowing money. They were kind though. I think they understand my struggles, or do they see through my lush eyes? Lush lies? Ugh, too much to think about now. I need to the start of another week, giving this honest young life a try.
These two could be in some weird heist movie. She must have worked it all out with the teller. She’s comfortable now. He’s playing around with some thread on his coat. Maybe in the movie they’re low level scam artists. I could see them running some bottom shelf modelling agency. Going from bum town to town. Preying on the hopes and dreams of moderately pretty farm girls; too young and too naive to wrap their pubescent minds around the desires of sinister folk. Their mothers just as naive, dolling them up for show. The idiocy of their fathers drooling compliments; putting their little angels up on pedestals so high. Maybe they’re card sharks, strange lovers... they got some bad luck some place. Probably on the run, getting away from some real bad accident. There is some ex-husband or bad boyfriend somewhere, lying dead with a gun shot in his chest, in an upper-middle class living room. Maybe it was his parents? Maybe this is his story.
It’s saying my bus is delayed. It’s getting dark, this is ok. I never mind these brief moments of transition. I say I do, I tell my wife all about these clownish characters I day dream about. About the molding bathrooms, pathetic snack bars. But its the sweet solace of not being able to do anything other than wait. And we do. Uncomfortably alone, together. Our thoughts all over the place, our lives maybe as well. But here, here in places like this we can worry less, everything else is elsewhere. Our stories and worries, they don’t need to take shelter with us, in limbo. I need to get some air.
It’s cold outside. They must have read my mind. She’s standing over there with all her luggage, guarding it. Now searching her pockets for a lighter or a match book, cigarette resting loosely in her plush auburn lips. Like a quiet servant the kid leans in and lends her some fire. She inhales, exhales, not saying a word. Eyes darting around, observant. She’s so beautiful... she really is. She’s odd and older than me, but... Snow.
This woman makes me want something. I miss home, I want home. I want her, (I mean not her, but.. my her) my her - in her beautiful dress. Waiting for me to arrive. She’ll brush my coat off, and we’ll eat, and I’ll be tired, and I’ll be happy. I’d like to bring these two over and let them ruin my day dreams, my bus station day dreams... about some woman running for a bus. And we can all talk, all night. Not right now though. I’m going to go find a chair to take a nap in. I like it here.
Running, cussing wildly. Panting as she drags her luggage. Her arms in the air, causing the driver no distress as he pulls away leaving her in the cold garage of the bus station.
Walking inside, a fire in her eyes. Her hair is too much with all her hair spray; dyed a dark blood-red it is almost purple. She wears a faux fur coat; leopard print. A black scarf wrapped around her neck and shoulders. All dolled up looking ready to attend some elitist circus ball. What is she doing here? Here, in this no good greyhound station?
She brushes off, fixes her hair. Carrying a roll around suit case, the other hand adjusting her scarf. She looks something flustered inside as she composes herself. Her big eyes and perfectly made up face make an effort not to stress; she is a lady.
A lady now looking for a teller. She glances around, “Ah!”.
She walks over with an air of royalty, she is a high society snob at a punk rock show.
She is followed closely behind by a young male; maybe 25. A hipster, punk type, with his
bed head, jean jacket and smokey eyes. He could be her son, he could be her boyfriend. Maybe he works for her? They make an unusual pair.
I am sitting alone. I am waiting; like her and him and the rest of this crowd. Waiting here in this no where town greyhound station. Brief moments of purgatory. Where am I going? Where is she?
Well, I am going home. Home is a busy city, an unimpressive basement apartment, a beautiful, yet fannullone wife.
I’m coming from an awkward exchange with my sister and her Waspy husband. I’m not in the greatest of spirits. I don’t like borrowing money. They were kind though. I think they understand my struggles, or do they see through my lush eyes? Lush lies? Ugh, too much to think about now. I need to the start of another week, giving this honest young life a try.
These two could be in some weird heist movie. She must have worked it all out with the teller. She’s comfortable now. He’s playing around with some thread on his coat. Maybe in the movie they’re low level scam artists. I could see them running some bottom shelf modelling agency. Going from bum town to town. Preying on the hopes and dreams of moderately pretty farm girls; too young and too naive to wrap their pubescent minds around the desires of sinister folk. Their mothers just as naive, dolling them up for show. The idiocy of their fathers drooling compliments; putting their little angels up on pedestals so high.
Maybe they’re card sharks, strange lovers... they got some bad luck some place. Probably on the run, getting away from some real bad accident. There is some ex-husband or bad boyfriend somewhere, lying dead with a gun shot in his chest, in an upper-middle class living room.
Maybe it was his parents? Maybe this is his story.
It’s saying my bus is delayed. It’s getting dark, this is ok. I never mind these brief moments of transition. I say I do, I tell my wife all about these clownish characters I day dream about. About the molding bathrooms, pathetic snack bars. But its the sweet solace of not being able to do anything other than wait. And we do. Uncomfortably alone, together. Our thoughts all over the place, our lives maybe as well. But here, here in places like this we can worry less, everything else is elsewhere. Our stories and worries, they don’t need to take shelter with us, in limbo. I need to get some air.
It’s cold outside. They must have read my mind. She’s standing over there with all her luggage, guarding it. Now searching her pockets for a lighter or a match book, cigarette resting loosely in her plush auburn lips. Like a quiet servant the kid leans in and lends her some fire. She inhales, exhales, not saying a word. Eyes darting around, observant. She’s so beautiful... she really is. She’s odd and older than me, but...
Snow.
This woman makes me want something.
I miss home, I want home. I want her, (I mean not her, but.. my her) my her - in her beautiful dress. Waiting for me to arrive. She’ll brush my coat off, and we’ll eat, and I’ll be tired, and I’ll be happy. I’d like to bring these two over and let them ruin my day dreams, my bus station day dreams... about some woman running for a bus. And we can all talk, all night.
Not right now though. I’m going to go find a chair to take a nap in. I like it here.