Marika Malaea

faithful marauder + fake royal

My Last Bus Ride

with 3 comments

…made an unscheduled stop of gallantry for vagabond removal.

In other words, we didn’t hit the bum passed out in the street. I could tell the driver wanted to (we all did, really) — hey, the guy next to me was in a hurry to buy smokes and his break was only so long — but she was reduced to honking and waving her arm fat loosely out the window.

Finally, a police officer said the magic removal words, and up rose the urine-covered wildebeest in a trench coat favored by Green River Killers and Inspector Gadgets alike.

He ambled away, somewhat crookedly, righting himself on a garbage can. I waved when we made eye contact because it seemed like the nice thing to do, but we both knew it was bullshit. I just put my hand in the air, where it didn’t actually move. I felt like my five-year old self, pretending to be an Indian.

‘HOW,’ I seemed to be asking, not wanting to know the answer.

‘Who cares?’ his face replied, not wanting to know, either.

…became a clown car for miniature humans (in matching neon t-shirts), and their chipper, teenage overlords.

With a warm blast of heat that smelled of sour milk, strawberry gum, and sun-warmed poop, the Generic Neighborhood Day Camp invaded the bus. Our bus. My bus.

This is what I imagine the South smells like.

I stopped counting the number of children at around 42. There were two kids per seat, and they filled up the entire back section, which is really a whole bus by itself. I thought, ‘My stop is coming up soon — surely this is tolerable.’

That’s when the next batch of stanky kids got on. Chaos followed.

One, two, three, four, twelve, thirty-two — when would this clown car madness end? Panic seeped into my heart about the next day’s headlines: ‘Woman Suffocates To Death By Adorable, Strawberry-Scented Bus Bairns’ was the one I worried about most.

My bus stop came swiftly like the death I’d been praying for. The little girls around me screamed, “BYE MISS LADY!” as I exited the womb of Octobus. I looked into the window as the bus drove away, and five little people made faces at me.

Miss Lady’s heart of darkness warmed at the sight of these faces, stretched into menacing glares of perpetual silliness. I waved at the back of the bus, laughing.

…went through at least twelve major olfactory revolutions, beginning and ending in vomit.

The revolutions were as follows:

Dude, There’s Vomit On Your Boot

Cigarette Smoke For Everyone!

Unwashed Butthole Madness

Victoria’s Secret ‘Passionfruit Surprise’ Smells Cheap and Lasts Forever

Peanut Butter-Banana Sandwich, You Enrage Me

That Coffee Breath Isn’t Doing Much For Your Morning Breath

Old Lady Perfume = ‘Passionfruit Surprise’ Circa 1896

Gay Male Double-Dipped In Acqua di Gio

I’m Choking On Your Nag Champa, Hippie

Robot Perfume -or- You Smell Metallic, But Why?

Marijuana At 8 A.M., I Applaud Your Persistence

You’re Vomiting Uncomfortably Close To Me

I waved the vomitous one away from my seat, though somewhat halfheartedly. I figured after all the other crap, what’s one more pile of pink-and-white matter that looks like alien brain noodles?


Written by sn0tteh

July 21, 2010 at 6:11 PM

Posted in Uncategorized

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3 Responses

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  1. i live in the south. i know it’s exotic compared to seattle, but i promise we don’t smell like sour milk, strawberry gum, and sun-warmed poop.


    July 21, 2010 at 6:21 PM

  2. Well, it can’t ALL smell like that. But since I’ve only been to the deep, deep South — and that’s the olfactory FEELING I got from all the places I went — I’m going to assume you live in a South I’ve never actually been to. Besides, anywhere you live probably smells good.


    July 21, 2010 at 10:19 PM

  3. i just went to the south and it nor know one smelled like that. there are also little to no busses in BFE.
    good ol’ metro never seems to fail the senses.


    July 22, 2010 at 3:55 PM

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