Metro Transit reminds me of the past. Going to and coming from tragedy and comedy. I walk from the bus stop to a house. Trudging through the snow. Packed white powder; 3 feet high along the sides. I open the door and set in, changing my surroundings by changing the décor.
This rambler provides cash, a car, a note, a set of keys, and a roof over head to watch a pooch. All of this was arranged in a 15 minute conversation that ended with a handshake. I settle in, and firstly, I fail at making a pot of coffee. Grounds and water creep across the marble counter top, illuminated by the sunlight, the phosphorescent sluice crawls inch by inch towards the counter’s edge and onto the faux-granite tiles of the floor. The host on the kitchen television program is having a hard time concealing her breasts-rather her nipples. I wonder how she got this job in the first place. I wonder how I got this job in the first place. Dog-sitting.
Sometimes life blows, sometimes you are on the receiving end of that blowing.
The Siberian husky plays outside as I get acquainted within. The laundry buzzes a low dull hum in the basement below. The television barks. Book and bag sit gathering dust. I must lock the dog in the bathroom and transit to an apartment in NE Minneapolis, and then on to work. Wait, I am working, wait, I am going to work, wait, what is a job anyway?
I will be serving and assisting throughout the evening, and then traveling back to South Minneapolis to let the dog out.
Reality is money, where do I get my next dollar? I am feeling a bit delusional.
Transit again, to NE:
A girl in the seat in front of where I sit clutches The Bible. The driver asks how my day is going. I answer with fantastic. No one wants to be near us in the end. We exist as one, even with others. Thinkers and believers ride through the city in a box on wheels. The driver mumbles on the loud speaker, Tony Bennett coos in my ears. The girl in front of where I sit has large breasts and clutches her Bible tightly against them as we pull to the side of the street for a pick-up and drop-off. This seems ironic. Snow and ice crunch beneath the large tires of the bus. Doors open and shut housing and welcoming, momentarily, cold air. People talk. Signs tell us what to do. I look at my wet leather boots, and a portion of the cheap blue metro transit seat-which holds me. What a day. Swinging to the side the bus jerks my frame-top to side and back. I sit cheap transit comfort, stop and pull. Midday nausea. The dog is in the bathroom waiting. The bus driver is bald and fat. A convivial sort: the social Buddha type, northbound to downtown, from whichever bus station, wherever, somewhere in Minneapolis. We float through the Midwest, block by block.
This neighborhood in South is friendly. We bus through the slow economy dead zone towards downtown. The next lot on the bus: crackheads, bums, and artists. The next lot off the bus: Large Breasted Bible thumpers. Making room for diversity. We are all going in the same direction at the same speed. Focused and mindful, lifeless and depleted, we flow on rolling wheels through the season’s shit to punch clocks and to listen intently.