The Twin Cities Forecast

SONY DSCRadiohead’s Lucky will be playing along the way. Off the bus and up the hill, walking through the crowd waiting to load, standing impatient; they are shuffling their feet. The driver, rude as she is, will tell commuters to wait outside in the rain. It’s cold- but wait outside in the rain; I have to go to SA and grab some $.99 beef jerky sticks: NOM NOM NOM. Even if they ask nicely they still have to wait out in the cold rain, no fucking trust I tell you, outside.
Business as usual will take place, standing, or making pace, sometimes no movement at all; a pause in this rat-race. The clouds will be black above, angry at times, and mostly grey. Never parting they swirl and mist; they drop bombs- like this: Hiroshima. All black holes overhead would be decent, but I don’t mind opaque. Anti-matter doesn’t matter, what a day.
Mark Wheat will tell the whole city that the rain is good for things, and that at least the streets are clean. I have no idea what streets he is referencing; however, I agree out of apathy. The streets I am on are marred with potholes, submerged in water, and traversed recklessly by absent-minded half-blind motorists probably updating their Facebook statuses or texting their others. Perfect segue: The bus made it past a tow-truck with two cars; one smashed from the side, the other, obviously totaled in the front. Blood stained spider-ed windshields, some hair caught in the cracks, maybe still attached to flesh. A real murder scene it was, just kidding. Someone was texting and driving, inattentive fool. I sort of felt bad for them. That feeling you get after a car accident, like, am I going to be fucked in a court of law for this? Do I have insurance? IDK.
Comic book sit; legs apart, skinny jeans, bag open, Duluth Pack, minor-nauseated stomach under the ironic shirt, and this city passes. Good thing I wore my flannel, I like looking like a lumberjack. I just want everyone to know that I dress like this because I want people to know that I am a Hipster, not think—rather, know. I’m sick of people asking me. They must know. Discrete definitions are the keystone to an enriching life. Try to label that one.
All in the same, these four tires and the box above it housing such animals trapped within. The framework of society maims us figuratively. We are bleeding red, white, and blue, relatively speaking. People sniff, the cold is inside their heads. The bus moves. People say ‘thank you’ and they’re off.
Forecasted a few more days of falling droplets; the umbrella blues. One can see beaded wet accumulating on coats. As it clings it doesn’t let you forget, you know. The sun is gone, so it goes.
Walking on, up across, and past, momentarily stopping again. The red, green, and yellow lights are bright, calling to attention. Lurching and leaching from one side to the other, almost unable to comprehend the words within, low-light- there are a few “S” shapes the bus makes and then I pull the cord, press the button, and another red light turns on. We stop and I am gone.
Standing next to tracks after pressing another button, a robot speaks to me, Radiohead plays in my ears. A Light Rail train runs by, “Not in Service” it says in dotted yellow. The orange man in the box turns white and I walk across. I stand for a moment watching my peers.
The wind blows as an overcast mass moves above, stagnant as if standing still. 3 buses roll up on slick black tires; I can almost see my reflection. A grandmother drives the first, a man drives the second, and I didn’t look at the driver of the third, I just got in. I kept my hooded head fixed down on the ground. Walking all the way to the back of the bus, scholars watch as I motion past. 4 or 5 seats in the rear and I am sitting near someone, she is blond, she is eating her fingers, and she is peaking over at me.
I read my book. The back of the bus becoming  as stable as a rollercoaster en route. I am almost sick. I look up and an elderly woman with greyed hair is watching me. I watch her back for a moment and then I let her see the title of the book I am holding. It’s stated in bright, almost neon, yellow, outlined in black, lettering: WATCHMEN. I hope she is satisfied. Now she reads!
We stop again, I hit a red button. The air-brakes make a sound which screams a release of pressure, stale oxygen tension. A headache begins. We stop at a sign maybe one block up from my destination. We are still moving, the doors open, I hold a metal bar above my head for stabilization. My bag is slung, my book is stashed, and I step onto the sidewalk and have this thought.


About Terry Scott Niebeling

Hello, My name is Terry Scott, a human being with flaws. twitter: @sirterryscott Buy my ebooks:
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