So every Sunday I work at my real job. It's less than ideal, but it must be done. I take the bus to work whenever I can, and I gotta tell you that the #75 on a Sunday morning is worth more than the price of admission.
There's a cast of regulars. The bus runs down along Lake Washington, and every Sunday this summer Mr. Fisherdude got on. He was a big guy in hip waders who carried a fishing pole and a tackle box. God only knows what he ever caught out there. There's the Black Gentleman With The Cane who smiles and says 'hi' when he gets on. There's also the Surly Punkrock Dude who gets off in front of City People's Mercantile. Almost every week he nearly misses his stop because he's asleep. He hasn't been there the last couple weeks. I wonder what's up?
Today the bus was busier than normal, and there was one Chatty Cathy behind me who was telling her unfortunate seatmate all kinds of stuff. I had her pretty well tuned out until I heard her say, "I was going to go to _______, but when I went out to my car, my son had let the air out of two of my tires."
"Yeah, see, I get my license back in three weeks, and every time I get close, I get pulled over and the judge re-sets the date."
Uh - huh.
"He was just protecting me."
And all the rest of us, sister. I hope she rides again next week. I'll pay more attention.