Busride

Commuting can bring it the worst in is

"Think he was into the bottle, amigo?

Paula nodded her head, resting her hands on her hips. "I think this son of a bitch is in the bottle from five in the morning to four thirty the next day—a pill bottle!"

"Or maybe the problem is that he's got pills he won't take.," Valero replied soberly.

They were upwind from the smoke, but they could still smell the strong tang of burning vinyl and rubber.

Paula adjusted her equipment harness, turned on her uniform camera and nodded her head toward the crowd. "Come on partner; let's go see what they think."

The two blue-clad officers walked toward toward the people who were gathered on the opposite sidewalk. Valero was never surprised to see how many disaster-watchers weren't crying, weren't shocked— they smiled, like they were seeing high entertainment. It made him vaguely ill.

Wordlessly, they converged in a man who was trembling as he stared at the smoking ruin.

@-----@-----@

I don't want to think about it, about what happened on the bus, about all those questions the police asked, with their bright prying badges.

I don't want to think about! I want it in its own little corral. I don't know if it was because of the crowd or the heat... The guy in the aisle was talking about God; it's not like he was talking hatred or violence. I didn't need to—

But the heat was tremendous! The diesel fumes coming in the windows made everyone cranky. We were all irritated. I was just being a decent citizen when I approached the pacing preacher. Wasn't I?

Maybe if I write a little longer I can get this incident out of my mind, tucked away behind a fence, out of my mind's eye.

Like all the rest of them.

(Word Count 300)