If I Had a Nickle

Back to the bus. Yeah I know I promised big things. We were going to move to a strict diet of walking, longboarding, van-riding, but tonight I bolted to catch the 10. Eastward home. Left the comedy club downtown where Talitha's friends were trying their hand at improvisation, and paid my $2 fare. Yes, Wendy, I paid this time; didn't use my expired pass. Used cash, sat in the fifth row on the left, kept to myself. A man got on around Corona Street and told the driver he didn't have enough money. Brought out a roll of nickles and dropped a few in the cash box. He lingered at the front a moment too long and the driver pushed him back. He sat near the front, and spoke to every single person around him, eyes wide open. "I know you, sister," he said to the women, and "We are brothers," he said to all the men. He said to the young man reading his book, "Brainiac. Hey brainiac, how'd you learn to read?" No one around him made eye contact, but I kind of couldn't help it. He didn't look at me for a minute, but then, once he caught my eyes, he wouldn't let go. We had to stare at each other. He said, "Sister, I know you, and you goina be okay. Just let it happen, sister, don't have to worry about it, trust me, sister, you goina be okay." He kept talking, I got up to exit, and walking down dark 12th Street, I thought, Yeah, crazy man thinks everything's going to be okay. Also, he knows me. He knows. Everything is going to be okay. So yeah, I got my $2 worth. No wobbling on the way home--total confidence.

Stop One: Colfax and Milwaukee

The bus stop nearest my house is always cold. No bench, just the signpost and a small wind shelter. The stop stands in front of an empty fenced yard near a dirt-bag weekly motel, thirty feet from the liquor store which Chris says sells good cheap wine. Frat boy bar directly across the street.

The bus schedule is always about ten minutes off, but I check it anyway. I want to know there's a bus coming. At all. Time doesn't really seem to matter. I want the reassurance that a bus will come.

The homeless man with the oxygen tank seems to know when to expect me, and has already begun his conversation with me before I arrive. I feel rude ignoring him, even though I don't want to listen, and I know he's talking in circles. He points in the direction of the bus, but the bus isn't coming. He's got a heavy pot belly, and holds the rim of the blue metal trash can to stabilize himself while pointing.

Standing at this stop, I imagine the passing drivers in their cars think I'm a prostitute. But that's only because this is Colfax, and I'm standing near the edge of the street, waiting for something to happen. On Thursday a man in a white hatchback pulled over and asked if I needed a ride. I said no, and he asked if I'd ever done any modeling. Would I be interested, he wants to know?

This is not my favorite bus stop, but there's something strangely safe about standing out on Colfax. That street is raw. Unprotected. It's open and exposed and there are always people walking around. Nothing feels covered. The street seems to open up on either side, to the north and south of this city. Colfax is our spine.