181 Mysteries

She seemed both young and old, wearing baggy sweatpants and an oversized sweater, staring at me unblinking with pale blue eyes as she stroked downward on matted blonde hair. I did my best to ignore her, as I did most people on the bus, but we made eye contact, and that, apparently, was an invitation to sit down.

As she sat, she spoke, her voice sounded like it was scratching gravel. “Ever hug a bronco?”, she asked.

“Excuse me?”, I responded, unsure of the question as well as the situation.

“Ever hug a bronco?” she repeated, as if it was the most basic of questions.

“I don’t understand,” I said, “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means…” she responded, gently grabbing my left arm “...have you ever... hugged... a bronco?”

I shook my head “No, I have not,” I replied, not sure where this was going.

She seemed to accept that answer and proceeded to pull out an object from a large, worn, plastic bag laying beside her.

“I have a daughter,” she said. Her eyes were intense, as though she were pleading, “My daughter is Jesus Christ reborn. Want to see her picture?”

Without my answer, she was already unfolding her wallet and holding it in front of me. She emphatically pointed to the see through plastic frame, where a photo would be.

“You need to look,” she said, “She’s going to save the world.”

I looked, but there was nothing there.

A moment later the bus stopped, she gathered her things and was out the door. Before stepping off, she reminded me to “Hug a bronco,” and was gone, lost amidst the crowd of people in Old Town Pasadena.

An odor began to emanate, familiar and unpleasant. I looked over to where she had sat, and amidst the graffiti and disrepair, a puddle of fresh, yellow urine now occupied her now vacant seat.

Usually this was an uneventful bus ride. I would sit behind the driver, placing my backpack between myself and the thin dividing wall separating the driver from the passenger, a cautionary measure to prevent theft as I napped through the hour-long ride. But, instances like the urine soaked seat made me thankful that I finally had a car.

On this day, though, I was without my trusty Toyota Tercel, having been robbed of its use for months due to an act of stupidity that was wholly my fault. So I returned to my old routine, sitting on a bench outside of the Philosophical Research Society on an overcast day, waiting for the bus to arrive.

The bus arrived, the hydraulic door split apart, and I stepped on finding my usual seat behind the driver empty.

As I got situated, I noticed across from me were a couple engaging in intense, passionate, early morning kissing and fondling.

The one on the right was a small man with dirty blonde hair, clearly shorter than his partner, as he had to reach up to paw at her with his short, stubby, hands. He was attempting to be sensual, which resulted in his shiny, blue, nylon Dodger’s jacket, the cuffs of which failed to reach past the mid-arm, rubbing against itself to produce a most unpleasant rustling sound.

The one on the left was a tall brunette with short hair, long nails, and a short skirt. She kept stroking his thick pink neck, leaving white traces which eventually reverted back to its unnatural rosy hue.

Their kisses were also aurally unpleasant, like two wet tissues constantly beating against one another.

Though the display was quite public, I tried to not intrude into their lustful space, but I did not want to give commentary either by moving away, so I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but the rubbing of vinyl, the wet kissed, and aggressive touching prevented me from being able to do so.

Eyes now open, I was surprised when the man looked straight into my eyes and mouthed “You want some of this, don’t you?”, before tilting his head upward once more toward his companion and resuming angrily sucking on her lips.

The ride from the Philosophical Research Society to Atwater was maybe ten minutes long. As the bus approached, the woman tugged on the cord indicating her intent to get off. Not once did she look up or away.

As the bus stopped, the hydraulic doors opened once more. She disengaged her partner, and in a deep, mannish voice said “This is my stop baby. Don’t forget to call me,” and stepped off, her clearly masculine frame shrinking as the bus pulled away..

“You liked that, didn't you?”

I turned back, and the small man was looking at me once more. I did not and refused to respond.

“You know you want her,” he said atonally.

I tried to close my eyes, to finally fall asleep, but I knew he was staring at me. Every time I opened my eyes, his pale, sad, blue eyes looked right at me, unblinking, quietly accusatorial.

We arrived at the Glendale Galleria when he eventually stepped off the bus, his small frame and tight clothes struggled against his movements. As he stepped onto the sidewalk he turned back toward the open doors of the bus.

And then this menacing, socially awkward little man began devolving, presenting a new, childlike demeanor before my eyes.

Raising his right hand he began to wave, “Bye mister bus driver.”

The doors hung open for what seemed like an eternity, before the hydraulic squeaks signaled its
closure. 

How did small man and his friend meet?  Should I have hugged a bronco? Did invisible Jesus girl ever save the world? Was the urine always there, Or did she pee herself? Did I like that?

That was the bus that traveled route 181, where the strange and awkward lived in perpetuity and mysteries were formed, never to be solved.