Then-salvation! The bus appeared around the corner. It rumbled up the street and, with whining airbrakes and long hiss of air, slowed at the bus stop.
Brandy sighed, grateful the noise had severed the grape vine, put a stop to the buzzing rumor mill. She was amazed how animated, fast-talking, these kids could be in the unbearable heat.
Obnoxiously, one of the Erica’s said, “Hello? Do you mind?”
The bus doors had opened, Brandy realized. She was blocking the way.
All the Marks, the Ericas, shoved past. Brandy quietly boarded onto the bus, with the rest of the adults.
With disgusted but resigned looks, they quietly boarded. Obediently they fed their money to the money feeder while the kids continued their inane gossiping.
They filed onto the bus, one after the other until all were on board.
As they did, two young men horseplaying in the aisle nearly knocked over an old lady trying to make her way to the back. None of the unruly youngsters offered up their seats so the older folk could sit, rest. Nothing was said.
That would be them some day, Brandy relished: forced to ride the bus to their retail jobs-or their jobs waiting tables-because their cars had been repossessed. Or rather because they could not afford a car to begin with.
Jesus, she realized she just described her own pathetic life. How long had she been working at Macy’s, anyway?
It occurred to her the only jobs around anymore were those working behind a counter, or behind a bar, or waiting on tables in a restaurant; the Walmart-type jobs. Or, if you were lucky, cleaning bedpans in a hospital.
“Hey, watch it! You almost knocked her down,” one of the kids spoke up.
“Fuck you!”
“Mind your own business, fucker!”
*****
When the metro light rail doors opened, Angel Rodriguez crammed into the train. Into the thick crowd of passengers.
Squeezing next to Brandy, she sighed loud.
It had taken her forever riding the #65 bus to reach the light rail, putting up with all those rude, obnoxious punk kids the entire time.
Now she would have to spend god knew how long on the light rail next to another punk kid.
He said nothing back.
Maybe he hadn’t heard her sigh, she guessed.
Thank god, she thought to herself when she caught a glimpse of him. Spying on him from the corner of her eye, she tried not to look obvious doing it.
Her first impression was: evil gang-banger. The fact alone that he wore baggy clothes spelled trouble and meant he was likely no good. But then again, she realized, all the boys wore baggy clothes nowadays. The girls: unbelievably tight clothes, the little whores.
