Sketches from The Ride
Paragraph 1.
He was old-looking for a kid; scruffy, unshaven, tall and somewhat grizzly, but skinny. With dark hair. He had a case with him, a musical instrument for sure - brass. He may have been in the high school band, but in the big cities you have more options, so it could have been a jazz ensemble. Other passengers approached him and I guess they asked him what was in the case because soon there was activity centering around him. I pretended not to be interested because I was intrigued like you would not believe. I forced my stare out the window and became deaf. Fall in love with one just once and it follows you; visages like the ghosts of lost puppies, bringing with them pangs of shame and regret but mostly the memory of that vulnerable way he broke you.
Paragraph 2.
In the strange society within the walls and hours between bells, they did not belong together. But they looked to be having a lover's argument when we picked them up in front of the school - the same one where the scruffy kid got off the bus. She wasn't particularly stunning, but he was. He had good muscle tone and wore the white wifebeater well, too clean to look grungy. I guessed him for a jock of some sort, maybe even popular. Not her; she looked pagan in a long black skirt with a mismatched tank-top and dyed red hair - the art student. The striking thing was that she led. He followed. They were both upset in a depressed sort of way.
Paragraph 3.
I see the same man every morning around 9:06 AM. I don't know his name and he doesn't know mine, but he honks and waves at me when I'm waiting for the ride back home in the afternoon. If I'm out there early enough to see him headed south on his last round, that is. He's a really good-looking guy, which is saying something considering I rarely find other Hispanics attractive, and considering his public service uniform is brown and flattering to no one. I'm sure it's the way he keeps his facial hair that makes him appealing. He seems like a sweet guy and he's a stickler for doing his job right. He calls out all the stops and intersections - most of the afternoon drivers don't - and pronounces Durango in Spanish. [do RAHN goh] I wonder if he's fresh out of county. He engages passengers in conversation, talking about things like screening facilities and narcs. Maybe this was some sort of community service. I haven't seen him once this week.
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He was old-looking for a kid; scruffy, unshaven, tall and somewhat grizzly, but skinny. With dark hair. He had a case with him, a musical instrument for sure - brass. He may have been in the high school band, but in the big cities you have more options, so it could have been a jazz ensemble. Other passengers approached him and I guess they asked him what was in the case because soon there was activity centering around him. I pretended not to be interested because I was intrigued like you would not believe. I forced my stare out the window and became deaf. Fall in love with one just once and it follows you; visages like the ghosts of lost puppies, bringing with them pangs of shame and regret but mostly the memory of that vulnerable way he broke you.
Paragraph 2.
In the strange society within the walls and hours between bells, they did not belong together. But they looked to be having a lover's argument when we picked them up in front of the school - the same one where the scruffy kid got off the bus. She wasn't particularly stunning, but he was. He had good muscle tone and wore the white wifebeater well, too clean to look grungy. I guessed him for a jock of some sort, maybe even popular. Not her; she looked pagan in a long black skirt with a mismatched tank-top and dyed red hair - the art student. The striking thing was that she led. He followed. They were both upset in a depressed sort of way.
Paragraph 3.
I see the same man every morning around 9:06 AM. I don't know his name and he doesn't know mine, but he honks and waves at me when I'm waiting for the ride back home in the afternoon. If I'm out there early enough to see him headed south on his last round, that is. He's a really good-looking guy, which is saying something considering I rarely find other Hispanics attractive, and considering his public service uniform is brown and flattering to no one. I'm sure it's the way he keeps his facial hair that makes him appealing. He seems like a sweet guy and he's a stickler for doing his job right. He calls out all the stops and intersections - most of the afternoon drivers don't - and pronounces Durango in Spanish. [do RAHN goh] I wonder if he's fresh out of county. He engages passengers in conversation, talking about things like screening facilities and narcs. Maybe this was some sort of community service. I haven't seen him once this week.
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