Article voiceover
the bus passes an eighteen-wheeler, through the tinted window I see a trucker, hands at his nose, wheel free and willing, taking a sniff. cocaine? no. on a long haul, you’d need a gram every few minutes. must’ve been meth. crank. at eighty miles an hour we barrel through this trashscape avoiding eyes and lapping halitosis, feeling run-down along concrete riverways, piloted by a blobfish, he pulls the bus over like it’s a sedan and staggers, rushing, gasping, bumping seats and stained elbows, to the bathroom, a hellhole in itself, and I think Jesus, I hope he’s not shitting in there, only a few rows away from the crapper I’d have to live with his deathly dump for the remainder of the ride. there’s an arcane silence, nearly eerie, red-painted barns and roadkill, petulant fathers wielding cell phones screaming at potholes. customer service at 30, accepting that the ultimate question is answered only with money in America, God is a flaccid apparition and the Earth is a reflection of Him. sickboy behind me, I turn and meet a cough and the ire of illness staring down a dry-nosed man stoned immaculate, the seat is like a brick wrapped in fabric, nightfall enshrouds all of our faulty parts, the frugal peasants nod.
P.S.- The final episode of my serialized novella, EPISODES IN SAPPHIRE, will be out tomorrow. After that, I’ll be posting part two of Joseph’s journey, VILE SELF PORTRAITS. Stay tuned, and thanks for reading.
Thank you for the ride 🙏🏼
In my teenaged days I used to ride the RTD, which is what they called public transportation in LA before they changed the name to Metro to sound more cosmopolitan. Those buses were made by a company called Flxible. The trick to riding was to find a seat next to a window that opened, because there was no air conditioning.