The Bus Stop (comment lindsey.) it's a rough draft

        Every weekday I ride the bus to work.  Today is Tuesday, so here I am, waiting at the cracked grey plastic bench a block from my home.  In the suburban area where I live, no one rides the bus.  So the bench is always empty.  Today was no exception.  Not in that regard and not in any other.  I sip on my coffee- black and lukewarm- and try to exaggerate for a second the solace that some get when they feel the cool spring breeze come out from the trees.  To no avail, though.  For a couple a years, the birds’ chirps and songs were relaxing and humanizing.  Now they remind me of the sound a van makes when the brakes haven’t been serviced in ages, and you slap your ears in disgust of the squeal. Now they disrupt the only time of day I get some silence. 
            My stay at the bus stop usually begins with a thought process that changes very little each day.  It’s hot/cold/nice outside.  This coffee is sweet/bitter today.  The bus is running late/early today.  A passing jogger or a sprinkle of rain feels like a vacation when the closest thing I have to look forward to is public transportation.  Today it is warm.  One of the first spring days, when a hint of sprinklers and laziness can be picked up from the smell of the thin air.  It’s pleasant.  So is getting through a light right after it turns yellow. 
            The bus is four minutes late.  It is 7:49.  That’s 2 minutes before its average arrival time, but still technically late.  I keep a spread sheet in my briefcase to keep track of the exact moment the bus gets to this spot each morning, so that I can have a basic idea of the time I need to be here in case I’m running late.  I’ve never run late.  Other contents of my briefcase include a pen, some basic papers, and a canister of mace.  I could easily carry these without a bag, but appearances are everything.  The mace?  A Christmas present from my mother.  It’s neither fun nor practical.  She probably got scared watching the news again.
 When it gets to 7:58, I start to worry.  One time the bus showed at 8:00 and I gave the driver, Art, a terrible look.  I know Art’s name is Art not because of my own inquisition, but from a sign showing him as the certified driver at the front of the bus.  He and I, we have a prepackaged greeting each day. “Hello,” I’ll say.  “Well hey there!” he’ll reply.  His tone of voice is of unnatural excitement, like he’s the ‘conductor’ of one of those trains you ride at the zoo who sounds as if he’s going to take you on a great adventure.  The magical tour to the world of computer processing.  I can hardly contain myself.  He’s never asked my name.  You’d think he would after I’ve been his sole passenger for nearly three years, but I like it this way.  He keeps to himself.
            The time is now 7:52, and someone is walking towards the bus stop where I am sitting.  I’m both excited and disgusted.  I cup my eyes to see him underneath the rising sun.  Not too subtle, but I don’t care.  He walks prestigiously, wiping fictitious dirt from his shoulder and reaching in his pocket for a lighter to ignite the cigarette hanging in his mouth.  He has an intellectual strut, as if he’s observing every inch of the landscape and taking mental notes.  He’s also grinning like he just gave one of his old nemeses the what-for.  The way he presents himself annoys me.  Who wears suspenders nowadays? 
            He smiles at me and says “Mind if I sit?”  I just nod my head and he sits a little too close, but the bus should almost be here so I let him.  He takes a drag from his cigarette.  “So,” he says, “Tell me, why do you ride the bus?”  Why do I ride the bus?  A little personal, don’t you think?  I sit here every day.  I have for nearly 3 years.  Can’t he just let me be?  What am I, an anomaly?  I don’t think I am.  I think I’m normal.  “Because my destination is only a few minutes away and my wife uses the car for work.”  I say.  He nods his head. His arm is resting on the back of the bench like he has an imaginary girlfriend in between him and me.  “Oh, well I see!” He starts again, “I’m just visiting, and going around this fine town to ask some of the locals some questions for my next project.”  So I’m a social experiment.  I don’t like being a test rat.  He seems important.  He must be famous.  “Haven’t I seen you before?” I lie.  I’ve never seen him.  “You may have read me!  Ever heard of The Sorry Postman or Today’s Working Man?”  I hadn’t.  “I feel like I have,” I say.  “You’re a writer then? Didn’t you win an award recently?”  I have no idea if he has; I just want to see how big of a deal this guy is.  “Actually, I have!  Down at the college, that’s why I’m here.”  He keeps talking for about 30 seconds more but I zone out.  7:58.  Where in God’s name is that bus?
            This guy, he’s the real thing.  I ponder our positions in the present time.  Him, a worldly achiever who has the courage, the downright nerve, to come down here and talk to me and ask me questions.  And me, the lowly business man with his briefcase, stuck in this sorry bourgeois life.  What I’d give for our social identities to switch.
            Who says they're set in stone? Who says I can't be him? What's he got that I don't? I've become content with being dissatisfied.  The bus acts as a teleporter into a normal existence.  I strive for normalcy but at the same time despise it.  I want something new.  I have to force myself out of this picture and into a new one.  I have to kill him.  I have to kill him and take his place.  Oh, how they'd cry!  What's happened to our beloved writer?  What has happened to him?  I would be standing in his place with a grin.  He'd be me.  I'd be him.  I'd be the anti-writer raining on everyone's parade.  In exchange, I'd be the one they'd associate with him.  That'd be me.  I'd be something.  Or why can't he just come to work with me? All of my co-workers would be so impressed that i had a writer as a friend.  Then they'd love me.
            “You know.”  I stuttered.  “I work at… this office building.  And I was wondering if you’d…”  I stop in mid sentence and reassess.  This was a stupid idea.  “If I’d what, sport?”  Sport?  Did he just ‘sport’ me?  8:00.  I’m going to be late.  I cannot be late.
 Another figure materializes in the distance.  Two in one day?  You have to be kidding me.  I cup my eyes again.  His outline looks like that of Quasimodo.  There’s a protrusion sticking out from his back.  As he gets closer I realize that he’s got a bulky video camera that is completely out of proportion with his body.  He’s small and pudgy. His face is feline, with fat cheeks and wide eyes.  He looks like a rat- the perfect poster child for paparazzi.  “Mr. Stenson!  Mr. Stenson!  What will you’re next book be about?  How’s the girlfriend?  How’s the kid?”  I reach in my briefcase.  I find myself fingering the can of mace.  Hardly enjoyable, hardly practical, but it’d make one nice tabloid cover.  Then they’d recognize me.  Then I’d be a Mr. Stenson. 
I clutch the grip and unwind the cap.  He starts socializing with the cameraman.  He’s basking in his popularity.  It’s probably new.  It seems to me that any existence, with enough time, reverts itself back to being plain.  Mine is.  His will be.  I take genuine satisfaction in that.  I try taking a deep breath, but my anger grows again.  I want to get him!  Right in his eye!  I want him to remember me forever.  My face starts to get red and sweaty and the paparazzo asks me if I’m all right.  I get embarrassed. The bus pulls up with a welcomed squeal.  17 minutes late.  I pocket the canister and say hello to Art.  He doesn’t ask my name.  I wave good-bye to Mr. Stenson as the bus drives away.  
I replay the scenario over and over and over again on the way to work.  Alive or dead, I should have taken him with me.  Alive.  Or dead.  Alive. Or dead.  Dead.  Then they'd know me.  I fantasize about different ways the scenario could have played out.  Each time it gets more disturbing, more gruesome.  I decide to bury it deep within me and try to forget about Mr. Stenson, but one day I know it'll come out.  I'm one step closer to rudely forcing my existence to change.  Every weekday I ride the bus to work.  Tomorrow is Wednesday, so there I'll be.



I was watching the Antique Road Show today and a woman brought a few small Chinese carvings.  She just smiled while the appraiser priced them at between 610 thousand and 1 million dollars. 1 million dollars. For some dandy handiwork. And someone would actually buy it.  They looked like shit.  Pasty and dirty, like something you'd find at a garage sale, but the under-the-magnifying-glass view was so impressive, with all of the concise cuts and what not, the collection was "the best thing they had ever seen".  The next guy had a picture.  It was an unbelievable, black and white depiction of a civil war battle.  The detail of the men's faces were spectacular, the back drop fascinating.  I literally want a copy in my room.  The appraiser priced it at 200 dollars.  It was a copy, not the original, this was apparent by the corners and the lack of some copper lining or something.  This beautiful piece of art is worth 200 dollars, and four ugly sculptures are worth 1 million.  It's the same principle of the way I live.  The ugliness if praised, while the beauty is thrown under the rug.  I don't understand collecting.  Give me whatever looks good, I don't give a shit how it was made.

(This was written November 23. I didn't post it at the time because I hated it but I'll just throw it out there because I re-read it and found it somewhat interesting.)

I'm not exactly sure why, but rainy late night Sunday drives are usually the intellectual braingasms of an isolated day. Hydroplaning through the damp materialistic wasteland of Chenal french court neighborhood signs and piles of construction bricks and dirt, the scary thoughts that sleep underneath the soil of routine crack through and show themselves. Across the city of Little Rock is the misty lights of downtown. It's absolutely beautiful. Dim twinkling flickers on the far off horizons. I just stared at them for a minute, slowing down my car for a while, enough to where the person behind me nearly rear ended me. I started blurting out the ways I would describe them.  I screamed the adjectives and the noises that I might capture the mood I was feeling of the lights. And I realized that that's both the bane and purpose of my existence, to articulate the far away beauty that you can never get close enough to. The closer the light comes, the more apparent is the actual object; office buildings. No wonder. Cheap fluorescent death.

It seems to be the story of my adolescence.  There's an ideal and there's reality.  It's longing with no resolution; begging with no reward; running with no finish; reaching for the person popping out of the movie screen with your 3-D glasses on, and grabbing the air.  What did you expect? Did you think there was really a 10-foot-tall person floating above your seat? No, but it's a second of make believe hope.  It's a makeshift way to deal with the makeshift problem.  I'm ridiculously lucky to be able to question my own existence.  Most people don't get passed the worriment of how to exist in the first place.  I don't care what I do when I get older, I have to be able to change it on the instant.  I have to look at that far off light and be able to chase it, even if I know that I'll be lead to that dullness.  If I ever am the person eagerly anticipating Monday Night Football, please kill me.