Boogyin' back to "The Rock." |
December’s anticipation deflated to January let down in the bluest of times, with Christmas break ended facing my last semester I ached in finality. Eleven hours since Philly two foot of snow and still falling worsened with each westward mile. The Greyhound belches toxic fumes to the gray of a city snowbound. Standing at last, I shake pins and cobwebs inside the Pittsburgh terminal. “No buses outgoing till conditions improve.” Me, a neo-hippie pretender in scout boots and my freaked and faded Todd Rundgren T-shirt both of us narrow faced, stringy haired and so thin we look heroine chic. Packed tight with the stranded, splayed on the floor, next to the door a bag lady in duster and long johns calling “Frank, Frank!” I choose a floor space well away with a window. Grime collected in corners a dead fly upon the sill, one breath sends him spinning light and crisp to the floor. Yellow ploughs rattle their chains and clear the street, and the manhole cover steams as temperatures drop with the night. Icicles hang from the Iron City Beer sign, “Steelers, Superbowl Champs!” From the blind vendor and his Seeing Eye shepherd, I buy a soft pretzel squiggled heavy in mustard and call it my supper. Earlier on the bus I read “The Island of Doctor Moreau” so now these hours pass in vivisection visions like demented night in a sick bed. On the floor, I doze and wake to a passing madman his face forced close, creased and blowing eighty proof, “I makes my money robbin’ graves.” he looks hard at me for reaction, when I don’t, he shuffles on. Empty hours stiff and bleary ended by a rising sun the outside wet and dripping, I have change enough for coffee and Danish. “Bus to Butler now boarding” I grab my duffle and hustle to the dock, there, this guy from my dorm an electro frizz Deadhead “Hey dude, we’re boogyin’ back to “The Rock” his head bobs with emphasis. Springtime draws a bead on me an ending, a beginning in a “real” world, a world I want no part of. |