They filed onto the bus, one after the other until all were on board.
As they did, two young men horseplaying in the aisle nearly knocked over an old lady trying to make her way to the back. None of the unruly youngsters offered up their seats so the older folk could sit, rest. Nothing was said.
That would be them some day, Brandy relished: forced to ride the bus to their retail jobs-or their jobs waiting tables-because their cars had been repossessed. Or rather because they could not afford a car to begin with.
Jesus, she realized she just described her own pathetic life. How long had she been working at Macy’s, anyway?
It occurred to her the only jobs around anymore were those working behind a counter, or behind a bar, or waiting on tables in a restaurant; the Walmart-type jobs. Or, if you were lucky, cleaning bedpans in a hospital.
“Hey, watch it! You almost knocked her down,” one of the kids spoke up.
“Fuck you!”
“Mind your own business, fucker!”
*****
When the metro light rail doors opened, Angel Rodriguez crammed into the train. Into the thick crowd of passengers.
Squeezing next to Brandy, she sighed loud.
It had taken her forever riding the #65 bus to reach the light rail, putting up with all those rude, obnoxious punk kids the entire time.
Now she would have to spend god knew how long on the light rail next to another punk kid.
He said nothing back.
Maybe he hadn’t heard her sigh, she guessed.
Thank god, she thought to herself when she caught a glimpse of him. Spying on him from the corner of her eye, she tried not to look obvious doing it.
Her first impression was: evil gang-banger. The fact alone that he wore baggy clothes spelled trouble and meant he was likely no good. But then again, she realized, all the boys wore baggy clothes nowadays. The girls: unbelievably tight clothes, the little whores.
Etched in the window glass, she eyed a piece of graffiti. All the money spent on the light rail, to help people get around easier, improve their lives and the environment, some asshole writes graffiti on the train.
Some asshole like him, Brandy figured.
She wished Honda hadn’t recalled their airbags. Then she wouldn’t be in this mess, standing next to this devil. How much longer would it take Honda to fix her car, she wondered? Was that fire in his eyes? Did she actually see flames? And tiny horns?
How much longer must she put up with public transportation?
If it wasn’t her car getting recalled, it was always something.
The train jolted; everyone swayed with the movement, like water vacillated in a bowl.
Angel jostled against Brandy, and she could swear she felt him grope her tits as he did.
Then, quickly he moved away. But the crowd was so thick, he only managed a few feet.
Again, Brandy thought on the exquisite bottle of Beringer White Zinfandel. The one she had saved all month.
Suddenly, everything was okay.
She went to stroke her gold chain, looked down at her violated tits, and saw the chain was gone.
Grinning, he looked her over. She could feel his fiery eyes on her.
Among the nest of gold chains about his neck, she saw her chain: the little cocky, arrogant prick!
He had stolen her chain!
Now he was grinning, daring her to do something about it.
Over the intercom, the next stop was announced. The doors opened.
Brandy waited.
The doors closed; Brandy grabbed all the chains from Angel’s neck. She leapt from the train!
The daring leap thrilled her. Snatching the chains from Angel’s neck, taking back what was rightfully hers.
It was exhilarating.
She felt more alive than she’d ever been.
Then Angel was prying the doors open.
She felt cast into some surreal horror flick, her world turned upside down. Wedging one arm through the gap, he pried the doors open. Then his other arm was through.
The train pulled away, picking up speed. No, he was not going to make it.
Please, she prayed-
no, no, no, no.
Thank god, she was saved.
He pried open the doors and, jumping from the train, he looked to Brandy with eyes like murderous slits against the glaring sun.
Screaming, she ran.
