So the other day I decided to go to the local coffee shop, so as to not talk to or make eye contact with the barrista that I’m secretly in love with. An infatuation that is, no doubt, silly, considering I know nothing about this woman, other than that she has excellent taste in footware. I know this because that is where my eyes tend to focus when I order hot drinks from her. But I digress.

So the other day I decided to go to the local coffee shop (a more concise if less revealing opening line). Now this coffee shop is a scant fifteen blocks from my house, in the closest commercial district to me, and usually makes for a pleasant walk. The route that I take happens to be along a busline, the 44, and on the day in question I noticed that the bus schedule corresponded almost perfectly with my walk. Indeed the bus would be arriving at the stop I was standing at in a couple of minutes. It was ideal. I would have just enough time to smoke a cigarette before the vessel would come and wisk me away to my destination.

I love riding the bus — it is a whirlwind of humanity. Entire stories are revealed within it’s oblong cabin, from the darting glances of people’s inability to meet each other, to the ramblings of men who are so lonely that they have given up completely on social barriers. My favorite passengers are the teenagers who are madly in love, sitting on each other’s laps, so sure that they understand the world. Of course I was going to take the bus.

I lit my cigarette and waited. I did the things people do when they’re waiting for a bus. I thought about the book I was reading, laughed an old joke that popped into my head, reminded myself to give Felini’s Satyricon another shot (I know I should like it, everybody I know likes it) and so on. This went on for a while. A long while. When I next looked at my watch I realized that fiteen minutes had passed, and I easily could have reached the coffee shop on foot. There is an interesting logic that occurs when one realizes that they could have walked to their destination in the time it takes for a bus to arrive. It goes something like this: “Well now I have to wait. I mean, the bus has been moving toward me this whole time, while my stopping-place has remained at a concrete distance from myself. If I start walking now it would be like starting over, when surely the bus will be here any minute.” And on this particular day, this was my thinking. So I lit a cigarette, and thought about the things people think about when waiting for a bus.

An hour has passed. I’ve smoked eleven cigarettes. Felini is the farthest thing from my mind. My entire being is filled with an intense irritation bordering on hatred for the driver of the 44, as well as an overwhelming sense of conviction. I am going to ride that goddamned bus. Granted, since I had left my destination, I could’ve walked to the coffee shop, not talked to the barrista (fuck concision), drank my tea, and walked home to dwell on my own inadequacies. But that didn’t matter, I was riding that goddamned bus. The circumstances meant nothing to me, as I paced back and forth chain smoking, my conciousness focused like a lazer on the westbound lane of Market Street where at any minute my bus would come down the hill. Ambling, as it were, with no regard what so ever to me or my time.

Finally, the bus arrived, I boarded, passed my card through the slot, gave the driver a courteous if quiet greeting, found a seat, and looked at the other passenger’s shoes.