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The Bus Ride Diaries: Part Two

Short Story by: Barnestopper

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Summary

I jump onto route forty-three headed towards Costa Mesa and I can already feel the excitement rushing to my fingertips. I can barley contain myself so I start to play a humble melody with my palms by patting my thighs. I wonder what primitive adventure will come are way tonight. Perhaps we will get drunk off of whiskey and high on cocaine and then go running through these cities streets, shrieking at bystanders as we loot whatever we can get are hands on. Ahh yes, that is the kind of night I want. The kind of night that lets you forget all of life's hardships for a few fleeting hours. These are the kind of nights that we work all week for. Torturing are ears with scornful bosses and breaking are backs with manual labor. But this is why we do it. So we can enjoy breathtaking Friday nights that always have a hint of lawlessness to them.
" "Crack." This sound immediately snaps me out of my thoughts and I become aware of my surroundings. The crackling noise is coming from a short stout hairy immigrant who is furiously cracking peanuts and then jamming the nut down his throat. Never before have I seen a man so dedicated to a task. He is hiding his peanuts in a crumpled up brown bag and every time he pulls out a new nut, he examines it very carefully. He is staring at his newest nut as if it were some kind of newfangled gadget from outer fucking space. For some reason this mans rituals bother me beyond the point of toleration. Why the fuck are you cracking those peanuts so slowly and in such an odd manner, I thought. I do not have the balls to tell him this directly, so I get up and move to the center of the bus.
I begin to feel the passion coming back to me and am instantly invigorated by the fact that it is Friday. Soon I will be with my friends smoking good weed and pounding cheap alcohol. Maybe there will be a party and we will be able to rage anarchy at a strangers house. Now that's the kind of night I'm looking for.
Once again my thoughts are interrupted, but this time by a bony man in a tank top with some sort of a Mohawk Mullet hybrid. I am immediately intrigued by this man and I start to eves drop on his conversation to an older woman who obviously does not understand a word of English.

" Yea ya know my doctors out here in Santa Ana and I'm prescribed oxycodone for this accident I was In a month or so ago. Real gnarly shit check it out." Rite when he finished saying this he reached down and lifted up his pant leg so he could expose a hideous scar on his thigh.

" Pretty tuff huh?" He said, before releasing his pant leg and covering the hideous scar once again.

" Oyea as I was saying, my doc prescribes these pills but that shit is weak so I asked Him If he could up my dosage, you wanna know what he said? He said No! Imagine that, I am a god damn vet straight out of the Marines..."

He continued his rant but I tuned him out as soon as he said Marines. All of these drug addict vets I see on the bus always have something to say. Even If no one is listening, they will just keep on talking. The woman whom he directed the conversation to just continued to nod her head and whisper 'si'. It was clear that she didn't speak a word of English but he continued the conversation anyway. Once again I start to lose control and I become extremely annoyed by this man. I decided it is about time to move again, I get up and make my way to the back of the bus.
As soon as I sit down I notice a man passed a few seats away from me. I can smell the booze on his breath from where I am sitting. I wonder if that is how I smell when I am drunk, I hope not. His head is limp and it rests on his left shoulder. He is extremely tan, but not by choice, but because he is homeless and is forced to spend all of his time baking in the sun. I like this man. He is quiet and considerate unlike all of the other passengers today. He does not acknowledge the reckless slobs that inhabit are cities, but instead he finds a moment of solitary slumber on his short ride to Costa Mesa.
The driver announces my stop and its deja vu all over again. How many time in my life will I hear 'exit here for Baker and Adams'? How much money will I spend on bus fare in total throughout my whole life? How many mile in all will I travel using the bus? These are some questions I don't really care to learn the answer to. I mean who really fucking cares. I realize I have passed my stop so Yank the cord that alerts the driver to stop and I get off of the bus. I look around and see a city with endless possibilities. I walk up to a homeless man and ask him to by me a forty ounce and he does. God bless the homeless.















Content

Submitted: June 19, 2013

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: June 19, 2013

A A A

A A A


  Its a story about the bus. Sorry for Grammar issues but as you may have noticed I fucked up typing it and put it in the wrong area. Hope its not to hard to read. Enjoy.


© Copyright 2016 Barnestopper. All rights reserved.

The Bus Ride Diaries: Part Two The Bus Ride Diaries: Part Two

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor

Houses:

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor

Houses:

Tags

Summary

I jump onto route forty-three headed towards Costa Mesa and I can already feel the excitement rushing to my fingertips. I can barley contain myself so I start to play a humble melody with my palms by patting my thighs. I wonder what primitive adventure will come are way tonight. Perhaps we will get drunk off of whiskey and high on cocaine and then go running through these cities streets, shrieking at bystanders as we loot whatever we can get are hands on. Ahh yes, that is the kind of night I want. The kind of night that lets you forget all of life's hardships for a few fleeting hours. These are the kind of nights that we work all week for. Torturing are ears with scornful bosses and breaking are backs with manual labor. But this is why we do it. So we can enjoy breathtaking Friday nights that always have a hint of lawlessness to them.
" "Crack." This sound immediately snaps me out of my thoughts and I become aware of my surroundings. The crackling noise is coming from a short stout hairy immigrant who is furiously cracking peanuts and then jamming the nut down his throat. Never before have I seen a man so dedicated to a task. He is hiding his peanuts in a crumpled up brown bag and every time he pulls out a new nut, he examines it very carefully. He is staring at his newest nut as if it were some kind of newfangled gadget from outer fucking space. For some reason this mans rituals bother me beyond the point of toleration. Why the fuck are you cracking those peanuts so slowly and in such an odd manner, I thought. I do not have the balls to tell him this directly, so I get up and move to the center of the bus.
I begin to feel the passion coming back to me and am instantly invigorated by the fact that it is Friday. Soon I will be with my friends smoking good weed and pounding cheap alcohol. Maybe there will be a party and we will be able to rage anarchy at a strangers house. Now that's the kind of night I'm looking for.
Once again my thoughts are interrupted, but this time by a bony man in a tank top with some sort of a Mohawk Mullet hybrid. I am immediately intrigued by this man and I start to eves drop on his conversation to an older woman who obviously does not understand a word of English.

" Yea ya know my doctors out here in Santa Ana and I'm prescribed oxycodone for this accident I was In a month or so ago. Real gnarly shit check it out." Rite when he finished saying this he reached down and lifted up his pant leg so he could expose a hideous scar on his thigh.

" Pretty tuff huh?" He said, before releasing his pant leg and covering the hideous scar once again.

" Oyea as I was saying, my doc prescribes these pills but that shit is weak so I asked Him If he could up my dosage, you wanna know what he said? He said No! Imagine that, I am a god damn vet straight out of the Marines..."

He continued his rant but I tuned him out as soon as he said Marines. All of these drug addict vets I see on the bus always have something to say. Even If no one is listening, they will just keep on talking. The woman whom he directed the conversation to just continued to nod her head and whisper 'si'. It was clear that she didn't speak a word of English but he continued the conversation anyway. Once again I start to lose control and I become extremely annoyed by this man. I decided it is about time to move again, I get up and make my way to the back of the bus.
As soon as I sit down I notice a man passed a few seats away from me. I can smell the booze on his breath from where I am sitting. I wonder if that is how I smell when I am drunk, I hope not. His head is limp and it rests on his left shoulder. He is extremely tan, but not by choice, but because he is homeless and is forced to spend all of his time baking in the sun. I like this man. He is quiet and considerate unlike all of the other passengers today. He does not acknowledge the reckless slobs that inhabit are cities, but instead he finds a moment of solitary slumber on his short ride to Costa Mesa.
The driver announces my stop and its deja vu all over again. How many time in my life will I hear 'exit here for Baker and Adams'? How much money will I spend on bus fare in total throughout my whole life? How many mile in all will I travel using the bus? These are some questions I don't really care to learn the answer to. I mean who really fucking cares. I realize I have passed my stop so Yank the cord that alerts the driver to stop and I get off of the bus. I look around and see a city with endless possibilities. I walk up to a homeless man and ask him to by me a forty ounce and he does. God bless the homeless.















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