Metro Route #43

This story has since been edited and a more recent edition can be found at Desomnia in Drull
I woke around 11a.m., the half empty bottle of Bombay still on my nightstand. I just couldn’t bring myself to break the peace so early in the day. The bottle remained still.
My forehead throbbed. Stabbing pains in my temples, constantly reminding me of how the bottle lost half its contents. My blood red eyes replay the horrors I was trying to forget. Sara. The smooth tan complexion of her skin. Her eyes set as two swirling pools of blue-gray. Her last words, crushing everything I believed real in my life, “I’m not sorry it’s over.”
Those five words continued treading water through my stream-of-consciousness. I tried drowning them out with gin, and tonic. After 24 years of life, you’d think I’d have learned not to mix liquor and depression. I never claimed to be bright.
By the time I left my apartment, 1 p.m., I could already tell my day was going nowhere. Sara’s face was everywhere. The Safeway clerk. The mail carrier. The neighbor’s Persian cat. Everywhere.
With each time I say those strands of dishwater blond hair, I found myself one step closer to saying my final goodbyes. Dining on a last meal of shotgun shells. Introducing myself to the afterlife, with a most personal touch.
My body, being severely hung over, felt weary and near a state of total collapse after about five miles of walking. Going back wouldn’t do. I made an executive decision – and got on a bus.
Metro transit route 43, serving Downtown Seattle, Capitol Hill, Montlake and the University District. 45 minutes each lap. But I had nothing but time.
The afternoon rush was in full force as I scanned the crowded bus for an empty seat. One called to me from the mid-section, the only vacancy.
I rode, in the same seat, all through the afternoon. The sun began to set on my third lap. An array of crimson steaks fell over the water beneath the Montlake Bridge. The sheer brilliance of color reflected off the water without losing any of it’s intensity. A sight of such beauty it couldn’t be tainted by words. “I’m not sorry it’s over.”
I wasn’t until nightfall that I took notice of other passengers. Businessmen and junkies rode side by side. So many different faces, so many different stories. But two faces, one story stood out among the rest.
They entered the bus at separate times. She came aboard with several other Ave Rats just off 45th. Curly brown strands of hair accented her smooth skin poetically. She carried a backpack and a white laundry sack.
Her companions were typical of the area. Hooded sweatshirts that zip up in the front. Greasy hair of various colors arranged in a pseudo-rainbow. Trying desperately to be different, ending up just like everyone else.
He got on shortly after, carrying a jacket. Fiery red hair scattered in all directions, half covering a face that appeared badly beaten by the day. Dark circles set in beneath his eyes. Unshaven skin hung loosely from his cheekbones. He seemed to be under the influence of some euphoria-inducing drug. Cocaine, opium, possibly a combination of the two.
He sat quietly toward the middle of the bus. She rode in the back, surround by others.
One of the men with her asked if he could interview her for some kind of project. She reluctantly agreed.
The interview began. “Tell me about your current state of reality – or surreality as the case may be.”
She was caught off-guard by the question. After taking a moment to think about it she replied, “I feel like we’re exploiting a certain part of time that shouldn’t be explored. My reality is crooked, jagged and at times horrifying. I feel like I’m acting in a movie or someone has written the script of my life…”
Her colleague quickly transposed her words onto paper and continued on, “ Do you believe in fate?”
Confusion fell over her face. “What kind of an assignment is this?”
“It’s for my metaphysics class.” He repeated the question, “Do you believe in fate?”
“Well, no. It destroys the idea of freewill. I won’t go into why I think that. It’s pretty apparent we have freewill. Outside forces will always affect our lives. But with the given amount of freedom we have the general direction we travel is ultimately left to ones self.”
“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
“Physically, I’d like to be on another continent. Mentally, I plan to be on the road.”
“Maybe I should rephrase the question. Where do you see yourself spiritually in five years?”
“That’s one thing I can’t attempt to predict. I think that could be where fate comes in…”
The interview was over.
The ride between 15th and Broadway was uneventful. A few more people got on, none of them for very long. As we reached Broadway and East John, the Ave Rats descended onto the paved sidewalks, leaving myself, the young man, the girl in the back – and the bus driver.
She moved to the front of the bus, nearest the driver and began conversation, mostly with herself. I faintly hear her say, “Seattle is so harsh, so full of money.” The young man looked up at her eyes. Silence.
She began to ramble on about the influence of Southern California, namely Torrance, on her upbringing. Compton was briefly mentioned. It was hard to decipher the words as they were blustering through the hurricane of open windows.
I could tell that he was having the same troubles understanding her words. His eyes wandered aimlessly around the bus and out the windows into the darkness and lights.
She continued on about her bag being full of clothes and how she got a hold of them, at a Catholic church to be exact. What she carried with her was the extent of her belongings.
She diverged from her rant to ask the bus driver, if he knew of any shelters in the area, mentioning something about a list of them that she had, somewhere. The driver didn’t know.
We began to coast down Pine Street, into the heart of the city. No one got on, no one got off.
As we got deeper into the city I could tell that she was locked into some kind of link with the young man. They both stared deep into each other’s minds, opening all the unlocked doors, seeing everything there was to see, as she babbled more and more. His eyes never moved.
We made across the city, Ninth Avenue to First Avenue. As the bus came to a stop, they both began to gather their belongings. Before exiting he looked up at her and said the words that we all could tell were coming. “What do you want most in this life?”
She looked up at him, half cracking a smile, and then turned to look out the window. “I want someone or something to assure me that my struggle isn’t for nothing.”
He nodded his head and they both left the bus, through different doors.
The bus driver looked back at me and said, “This is where I take break for an hour.”
“I guess you can’t drive forever,” I replied and moved toward the door. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Anytime man.”
I walked quietly down the metal steps and onto the harsh reality of the cement sidewalks. Plastic bags and empty alcohol bottles littered the ground. I could see men sleeping in torn clothing near the warmth of the buildings.
Without warning the young man from the buss turned around and yelled to the girl, “I would like to make an attempt to help assure you…if you’re interested.”
She turned around. Her eyes lit the dull sidewalk with an iridescent aura. “How about coffee?”
They both smiled.
I followed them to a small café two blocks away, The Turf. A large neon sign lit up the letters R and F about the door. Panhandlers and drug dealers convened in front of the large windows. The only other store open was a second floor adult novelty store, directly across the street.
They took a seat in a booth near the back; I sat at the bar in front of the kitchen. I could see their movements, but the words were lost, once again, through the general ambience.
The waitress was in the kitchen; probably having just run out to the corner for a fix. Taking an unscheduled break to see God one more time, before having to face us. Five minutes passed. She approached me first. I could see the faint glow of the Holy Ghost resting lightly on her left shoulder.
She was about 5’8”, no sign of flesh. I could see nearly every bone in her face and hands. Her skin was reminiscent of an old leather sofa. It was exactly as I had expected.
Before she could initiate the conversation I made my move, “Coffee. Black.”
“Food?” she replied with a hint of irritation in her voice.
“Just coffee.”
She took the flimsy paper menu that had been placed on the counter for me and moved it to her apron pocket. All the necessary items were in place, a mug and coffee pot. She filled the cup only three quarters and spilled a noticeable amount down the side and on the bar. Without saying another word, the waitress moved over to the booth, coffee pot in hand. She filled their cups and took the menus. The girl placed her order. Only coffee for the young man.
They talked and laughed and drank their coffee. It was quiet possibly the worst coffee ever. I began to question how long it had been there and how the other two could be drinking it. I noticed that the young man hadn’t drank much, while the woman had attempted to compensate for the lack of quality with five packs of sugar and two non-dairy creamers. I suffered through it, black.
The waitress brought a plate of pancakes and placed it in the center of the table. The young man positioned it perfectly in front of the other side of the table. She ate everything on the plate. He smiled the whole time.
A man took the seat next to me at the bar. I knew someone would eventually. He ordered a coffee, to go. I made no attempt to acknowledge the man adjacent to me, but continued to look off at the booth, in the back.
“Sometimes love can find you in the strangest places.”
The familiarity in the voice was startling. Purely by reflex I turned around and looked at the man next to me. The bus driver.
We both looked at the couple in the booth. “I guess it does,” I replied.
“Well, I’ve got to get back up the hill.”
“Can you give me a minute and I’ll ride with ya.”
“No problem, I’m going to warm up the coach.”
I watched the booth for a moment longer, reached for my wallet and left a five on the bar. I got up to leave. When I reached the door I turned around for one last glimpse. He had switched sides and was holding her in his arms. Their eyes were locked on one another just as they had been, nearly an hour ago, as we fell down Pine Street.
I turned away. It was over.
I walked back over to the bus, exchanged salutations, and we took off up the hill. I sat in the back and looked out the window, onto the Seattle streets. A homeless family nestled together for warmth. A pigeon perched on top of a dented steel garbage can. A middle-aged man resting quietly near the entrance to the bus tunnel with a mix-breed dog sleeping up against his chest.
The ride was calm, just myself and the driver. As I walked down the front steps of the bus one final time, I was struck, with exhaustion from the day combining with an immense freedom. My thoughts moving in every direction at once, while it took every ounce of energy left in my muscles just to walk the block and a half to my building.
As I rounded the front staircase, there she was. Sara.
Before my body and mind could work up the coordination to form words, she spoke, “I think we need to talk. I made a mistake last night.”
Her hair blew gently across her face. Her eyes changed with the movement of the night sky. I looked up at her crouching on the seventh step. “I’m not sorry it’s over….”