Sorry, no change on the bus he said.
I sit just behind the rear door and listen as a loud, obnoxious either disturbed, inebriated or damaged man of forty-four (I know this because he mentioned it in his monologue five times) harasses the young girl whom I ushered aboard moments before. Glancing in the mirror to gauge the driver's reaction - he was ignoring the situation leading me to believe that this might me normal comportment for this route -I look out the window.
There, inside one of the most famous steak houses in Seattle, sit four men costumed for business. The waitress, in a snowy starched linen shirt and black apron, is setting dishes in front of them. I can almost smell the garlic wafting from the steaming plate of clams, mussels and jumbo shrimp. They each have a crystal goblet filled with what appears to be white zinfandel at arms reach. They are Caucasian, thirty-five to forty, and pleased with themselves.
I hear the obnoxious bus rider again tell the girl of his sordid plight and how - should they date - he would pick up the tab, because that is the way he was raised. I stifle an internal comment and wonder how long before I have to go Jack Bauer on the poor guy.
I take another look into the restaurant - we are loading a crippled woman in a wheelchair so the stop is longer than normal - where I see the businessmen making a toast. I stifle another overtly judgmental comment, just as the guy tells the girl in an aggressive and remorseful tone that he was married once and that the seventies were good, but he doesn't like the way things are going now.
I wonder to what the men are toasting.
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