Coming Home From A Funeral/#24
July 11, 2008A good thing the bus is late as usual because a man needs time to think before facing others. People are all around but the sounds of a vibrant city surrounds them, keeps them removed, keeps them from connecting with one another. The bus is no where in sight, but there are plenty of police cars racing by, sirens shattering any voice that may be inside a man’s head. A pothole is steaming just a few feet away. The vapors scatter, iron and steam, tar and the smell of urine embrace you like an old friend. Yellow cabs park, at will, here and there on the street. Their sunny disposition stands in sharp contrast to the black steel buildings. A young woman bumps into you and apologizes. You grimace and move back. Her touch sets off a series of explosions inside you but you do not succumb to these. You stand still, shoulders back, perfectly composed, wearing your best, black suit, perfectly pressed and still giving off a slight stench of chemicals from the cleaners. The wool suit feels like it’s made of chainmail but the weight of it is a comfort to you. It is over 80 degrees yet to you it feels like it’s below zero. The warm plastic wall inside the bus shelter feels like an ice cube against the back of your head. You close your eyes and concentrate on the sound of distorted music coming from the young woman’s headphones. She sings along to a foreign song. Her voice lulls you into a deep reverie.
