I was walking towards my car which was about five long blocks away, and I decided the destination loomed way too far. A caravan of red metro buses whizzed by me, so I decided that I would take the bus home.
I ambled to the nearest bus stop, where I inquired in Spanish from a guy waiting for the bus, as to when he thought the next bus would arrive. Registering a perplexed expression in his blue eyes, I asked this in English, to which he answered in a British accent, that it would come around about one in the morning.
After three packed buses passed by without stopping at my bus stop, when a bus did deign to stop, I stood on its platform, and politely asked the driver if it was even remotely fair that I pay for lousy service, since three buses have failed to stop to pick us up.
I really don’t know what my eyes looked like; he simply gave me a free bus transfer, so as to get the bus moving again. I made myself comfortable as the operator’s radio blasted “Ladies Night” on the Saturday disco radio show.
I was surprised to see Downtown in the wee early hours brewing with activity. I briskly walked to my connecting bus stop, while looking down at the floor. Since I was wearing flip flops due to acquiring blisters on my feet the night before, those due to promenading in high heeled shoes, I was afraid to step on a rodent the size of a month-old kitten, which proliferate downtown L.A.
The connecting bus ride was surreal. My mouth gaped open at the audacity of the female bus operator. She was careering at high speed a 40,000 pound, 40 ft stainless steel mammoth while texting. She alternated between a second glance to the road, and back to her Iphone, and so forth, with more time spent on the texting. I ceased my reading to watch the road, in case I needed to alert her of an imminent collision. After all, what could I say? It was a free bus ride.
Later on Sunday morning, I dress for the weather with a spaghetti strap turquoise blouse, and I venture out to get my car. I stop at Cliftons’ Cafeteria on Broadway to eat breakfast and people watch.
I observe an elderly man clasping his hands in prayer, these hovering over a tray which contained one small milk carton, and a slice of quiche. I also notice a woman leaving embracing her boyfriend, while wearing her Sunday best. Hopefully not to any church, as her powder blue backless disco dress made of polyester, and straight out of ‘Saturday Dance Fever’ would be a bit too festive for such a place.
As I wait for my bus to take me back to my car, a man with white, orange, and blonde hair in subsequent layers like those Big Stick ice cream pops, stood next to me. He rubbed his left eye, and I notice white eye matter caked on the corner of his right eye.
Last Sunday, the sun was brutal, and I was too exposed to its cruel punishment.
