Bus Ride

One never gets the sense of being connected to anything in Baltimore. The only common threads that run through the city are chipped concrete, plywood covered doors and aluminum siding. Walk long enough and you’ll find the newly discovered wealth of Canton, but look closely at the cookie-cutter condos and you can almost see the poverty of North Avenue waiting to creep in. I’m sitting at North Avenue now, eyes glazed and not really seeing the dilapidated chicken shack at the corner of Saint Paul. Maryland may be known for crabs, but Baltimore’s staple food is fried chicken.


It’s at about this point that I decide buses must be the same the world over. A combined stench of fuel and human sweat wafts gently across a color scheme seemingly designed to lay siege to the eyes and take no prisoners. The rumble of an idling engine is interrupted by the hiss of pistons closing doors, followed by the throaty complaint of gears manhandled into submission as the rumble escalates into a whine and we’re on our way.


I shift uncomfortably in my seat, glancing up and down the aisle and wondering with vague disgust when these people and I became a “we.” I do not belong with these people – I work for a living, I avoid drugs, and I bathe regularly. In fact, in my heart-of-hearts I’m quite certain that this is not my life.


Well, I was working for a living, before. Before what, I couldn’t say. Sometimes I wish I could say, but other times I’m just as glad I don’t know. No one likes admitting that they’re a failure, and those who do seldom want to reflect on it any more than they must – which isn’t much. People who sink to my level have usually mastered the art of Not Thinking About It. It’s kind of a prerequisite.


Right now I’m Not Thinking About the fact that I’m two months behind on my rent (again), out of work (again) and out of shampoo. Somehow that last bit bothers me more than the other two – maybe because I haven’t had as long to adjust to it. I count the change in my pocket, consider how many stops ahead I’d have to get off to get to the discount store, and give careful consideration to whether dish soap might be used on human hair without negative consequences – discounting of course the lemon-fresh scent.


Now, your average procrastinator can drag a question like that out for at least a half hour, maybe longer, until the bus stop has been passed, he’s almost home, and the entire question has become moot.