CITY ISLAND LINES
We are all waiting for the bus. The sun is blazing down and reflecting back off the cement. The heat is deflating and dispiriting. We each seek some relief under the meager shield of the plastic shelter.
Next to me stands a small stout woman gripping her young son’s sweaty little fingers. In her other hand strain the straps of an over-stuffed shopping bag. The boy stares up at me with large melancholy eyes. His left iris strains to focus on the bridge of his nose. Why do they call this a ‘lazy eye’? Noticing me beside them, the mother yanks on the boy’s hand and hisses something quietly in Spanish. Sheepishly, he turns his gaze to the ground. Sitting on the two flimsy seats are an unlikely pair. A frail grey woman, whose feet barely reach the floor, bows her head so low that her chin rests on her chest. She appears to be sleeping, but this may also be her normal anatomical configuration. Lodged in her lap is an equally old and tiny handbag, from which spills an array of used tissues and tickets. Next to her, and occupying some of her seat space, is a corpulent middle-aged man with massive purple calves that bulge out above his mismatched socks. He has a greasy paper bag from which he intermittently fishes out a cheeseburger. With each bite we hear the crinkling of paper and watch a rivulet of fat pool atop his prominent chin. His round face seems to float in a bowl of pink flesh. A heavily pregnant woman lumbers toward us. She is panting and perspiring for two. As soon as she reaches the scant shade that we share, the large luncher leaps nimbly to his feet. In so doing, he topples an enormous plastic cup with his right foot. He apologises as sticky liquid oozes along the pavement. The pregnant woman takes no notice of the syrupy river and heaves herself into the vacated seat. With one extra body we are now starting to encroach on one another’s unspoken borders. As we shimmy about to accommodate the latest addition, clouds suddenly appear overhead. Initially, this brings some welcome respite from the inferno above. Then, slowly, the clouds begin to bump into one another, not unlike us watching below. As they start to stack up, their bellies swell ominously, until, like compressed water balloons, they finally burst disgorging their guts and soaking the street with fat splatting drops. Once again, we reluctantly move closer to capitalise on the limited protection available. As swiftly as it started, the rain stops, and the tyrannous sun returns with a vengeance. Incomprehensibly, it seems to have gotten even hotter. Luckily, the sunlight now glints off a shiny moving object. At last: the bus. We all shuffle about, adjusting our bags and belongings in anticipation of escape. In spite of its precipitous appearance, the bus moves at a glacial pace, and we all wriggle with expectation. After a brief eternity, the bus finally drives toward us. However, instead of the customary slowing, it maintains its stately pace. The driver looks at us with something between pity and disdain. He raises his right index finger. Simultaneously, we all look up to see the bus’s banner, which reads, ‘Not In Service.’ And then the bus is gone. For a moment, in collective disbelief, we shake off our veils of invisibility. Astonished, we share sharp exhales and expletives. Then, like an orchestra of hermit crabs in unison, we each retreat back into our individual shells and continue to wait for the bus. 5 June 2018 ** Published in 'pacificREVIEW: A West Coast Arts Review Annual - synchronous' - March 2020**
0 Comments
|
Proudly powered by Weebly