Hooker on the Bus

Yep, I know you only clicked on this entry because who doesn’t want to read about the hooker on the bus. And you are now only sentences away from reading this delightful vignette, but first my bloglings, how are YOU? Thing been going well? Happy it’s February? File your taxes yet? Tired of the snow? Read any good books?

 

Well now that pleasantries are out the way, let’s talk about me.

 

Since contracting the plague, it’s been a rough go of things. It is likely that most of my workmates and I all contracted the dreaded H1N1, commonly known as the swine flu, and not the black death or Ebola virus. Kinda took the glamour away from being ill, but at least I know I won’t bleed out of every orifice. And except for continued wheezing that often makes me think there are people talking in another room and the sporadic nausea that appears out of nowhere, I believe I will live. Which, considering the events of the last week or so, at times seemed like a mixed blessing.

 

Speaking of living, I found this amusing. Took a lot of pressure off for the next 50 years. Now, now, this all leads up to the hooker on the bus story, relax. It’s not that far off.

http://www.alternet.org/100-things-you-honestly-dont-have-do-you-die?page=0%2C2

 

Anyway, Andy managed to swerve to avoid an accident two weeks ago tomorrow. Resulting in his own little accident, that took out a tire and drove the wheel of the car back into the wheel well. Of course, rather than driving the car home in its crippled condition, he drove to a friend’s house in the opposite direction, leaving the car there. Which probably should not have been driven, because of all the grinding and popping and wobbling the wheel was doing. Which according to the tow truck driver was actually, undriveable, except of course for Andy. For days. A week even. This effectively made us carless once again. Between plague, weather and other sundry hurdles that I needed to surmount in order to get a rental, we were carless for a week. So being confined to my sickroom and unable to go to work actually worked in my favor for once. Car’s now in the shop, and will only cost about $500 to fix, which while a hefty sum, is far less than I feared it would. But needless to say, the stress of no car added to my suffering, because had I had Ebola, I would not have been able to drive to the ER to die there. All I could think of was “please don’t let me die in Pennsylvania. In the winter. Without having swum with trapped, tortured dolphins who are forced to interact with humans.” But as with all of the trials and tribulations in my life, it also opened the door to those other great moments in my life, like…

Hooker on the bus.

The day started out as any day in which you have no car and need to get to work early and can’t get a ride that early should. I decided to take the bus. Now, you might think of busses as a reliable means of travel, which they typically are in metropolitan areas. I don’t live in a metropolitan area. I live in Schuylkill County, the unspellable, unpronounceable named county where busses are only for the senior citizen set, because they can ride them free to and from the sad empty shopping malls that are one of the featured attractions of the area. All busses travel through the county to the beautiful multi million dollar bus terminal in Pottsville Pa that is supposed to be “THE transportation hub” of the county. It has a beautiful fountain. Nice chairs and benches. But don’t think you can buy a bus ticket or pass there. Or get change. What kind of bus station do you think this is? A practical one? Fools. That kind of bus station exists only in dreams.

 

So, unaccustomed as I am to having to take the bus, I review the schedule, and plan to take the 7:15 bus, which is the first available, and the only one that could get me to work before 9:30. Busses run on some arbitrary schedule here, and only run between 7am and 6pm and never on a Sunday. I should consider myself lucky that there is actually a bus that can accommodate my needs this morning. So I prepare for trip. I venture out into the winter – I even dry my hair because, well, aside from it being only 2 degrees, I won’t be able to use the car heater hair drying system I typically use in the morning. I make sure I have the two dollars it will cost me because I am not old enough to ride for free. And I scurry off to the designated bus waiting spot. And wait, because the bus is running late. You know, because you would expect the first bus of the day to be late.

 

I patiently endure the freezing cold, grateful to have no shelter to protect me from the wind, and thrilled to have arrived early so as not to miss the late bus. Finally, the bus arrives. I allow the suspicious senior citizens to board ahead of me, and deposit the fare. I sit close to the front, forgetting that on this bus, paying passengers are expected to sit in the back. Screw it. How many senior citizens need to go to the mall at 7:15 anyway? I suffer the stern looks from the elderly morning mall crew who wonder who this usurper is on their bus. I bump along on the bus, wishing I had my earbuds for my ipod but they are on my desk at work. We pull into the next town. One stop, two stops and then…

 

The magic happens.

 

I look to the curb at stop number 3. At first, I only see what appears to be a professional woman with a fur coat  waiting to board the bus. Of course, I’m not paying close attention, I’m just slightly amused with what appears to be another customer who ACTUALLY has to pay a fare, someone like me. Someone who has to take the bus to work today. How wrong I was.

 

The woman, who appears to be around my age, steps aboard. I don’t really pay much attention at first, but since she seems to be struggling and holding up the bus’s departure from this stop, (this has drawn the ire of the old woman with the pink blush stripes across her cheeks and drawn-on eyebrows who is now staring her down with fire-eyes because she might not get to Arby’s for breakfast as expected and have to sit with her back to the door because her other old hen friends got there first) I look over. That’s when it all comes into focus. First I noticed the beautiful fur coat, made of the finest red rabbits. That’s right, I said RED rabbits. It’s mighty warm, that coat. Sort of matches her red hair, but that’s more carrot like. And a wig. A wig that’s a bit askew. She deposits her change and steps toward the mostly unoccupied seats. That’s when I spot the shoes. Now, I’m not one to get caught up in fashion, but I know that when I see a pair of silver and clear acrylic six-inch heels that they do not fall into the category of business casual. I’ve seen those shoes in catalogs and I don’t mean Neiman Marcus catalogs. Those are working shoes. For dancers. Professional women.

 

Yes, the shoes caught my eyes first. Then the sun hit her. And like Catholics picture the rock rolling away from the tomb and Jesus emerging resurrected, Ms. Professional Woman exploded into a dazzling aurora of sparkle. When the sun hit her silver lurex leggings and the silvery sequins on her tunic style top, it was like a brook trout leapt out of the breeding pool and did a somersault in the noonday sun. Or like a glitter explosion at a preschool for kids with ADHD. It was like the planets aligned so that this woman’s walk of shame was on the catwalk at the what-not-to-wear fashion week. Only a blind person would not have noticed that she was not dressed for office work. I flashed back to the times I made that walk home after a wild night, shoes in hand and hoping no one that would tell my mom would see me. Unfortunately for this woman, everyone on the bus was now enlightened to her line of employ. I bit back my smile and hoped for her sake she didn’t topple into the aisle from her perch upon her heels when the bus lurched forward. This was better than the lady who wears the color coordinated prom ensembles. Not better than having someone board the bus in a panda costume, but still entertaining.

 

The bus ride continued without any more excitement. I arrived at my destination and pulled the cord to disembark. I thanked the driver and continued on my way. I waited patiently to cross the street to the office. Except people were staring at me. It was starting to piss me off. Finally, I dashed across the street, swiped my access card and opened the door. That’s when I realized that the professional woman had exited the bus behind me, and was standing on the corner all lit up in the bright winter sun like a cubic-zirconia encrusted peacock. And for a minute, I realized that however much suck my day ahead had in it, I had a brush with joy that morning.

 

So my friends, that’s the story. I hope you found it to be as enjoyable as I did. It took a boring bus ride to the next level. As I predicted, my compulsion to write has diminished, and I’ve been ridiculously tired since the attack of the plague. And I am angry at Phil and his six weeks of winter prediction. Here’s where he lives in case you want to go and, um, help him get his predictions right next year.

 

 

Sleep well my pretties, I am off to dreamland. XO

 

PS. A friend of mine lost one of her sons today. Hug your loved ones tight. And say I love you. Even when it’s hard. You can’t say it enough.