Buspocalypse

buspocalypse
Exactly like the fingers of God, reaching down to tap you on the shoulder, if you were a tree and the fingers of God were branches. Just exactly like that.

Django and I were walking back from River Park. We’d crossed Lawrence just east of the river, and were walking west over the bridge. There, just west of Manor, I saw a familiar vision: The Lawrence bus trundling east and a would-be rider stood at the corner, attempting to flag it down. Technically it’s not a bus stop, but it is a corner, while for some reason the official stop is on the middle of the bridge. Not a great place to stand, especially when the wind is blowing like crazy and you’re freezing.

The woman waved her arms frantically, but the bus didn’t stop. I swear the driver inside was the same guy who passed me by at this exact same spot the other night when I tried to flag it down to get to Brasserie 54. He maneuvered his vehicle with the exact same air of Je nais se give a fuck.

With an air of defeat, the woman started walking toward me, heading east. I called, “That bus did the exact same thing to me the other night!”

“Really?” She said when she realized I was talking to her.

“I couldn’t believe it,” I continued, “Why wouldn’t he just stop?”

“It makes no sense,” said the woman. She reached me and paused for just a second. “You gotta write this shit down,” she said.

“I know,” I said. So I did.

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