September 22, 2010 at 12:32 pm (The Easy Chair)

It was a full moon kind of night. From the drunk guy with blood running down from under his cap to the tip of his nose to the cracked-out street people, there was an aura of strangeness. The moon peeked out from between the clouds, supervised by an angry-looking Jupiter. Lunacy abounds!

Why should the commute home be any different?

I boarded at my usual spot at the base of the bridge. I recognize the bus driver, The Husband. He’s married to my favorite driver. “Howya doin’?” I ask. His non-commital grunt sums it up. I grab my favorite seat before Buttcrack Bentley does. (We face off like Maggie Simpson and the Monobrow when he takes my window seat.) Sho’nuff, he sits directly in front of me. Someone must have spoken with him; he hasn’t been as odoriferous of late.

I listen to Slipknot on the MP3 player, then decide I’d rather hear what’s going on inside the bus. I hear The Husband yell, “Are you drunk?”


“Nah, I’m naturally like this,” I say. His confused glance in the mirror says he wasn’t talking to me. I spot a swerving car, and things make sense.

We pull up across from O’Malley’s, where Heavy Metal monday is winding down. The Husband opens his window and yells into the street, “Hey hot stuff! Give me some luuuuuuuvin’…”

My favorite bus driver, Mrs Husband, runs across traffic and boards. She gives The Husband a bunch of tongue. A passenger behind me says, “Damn, this bus driver has it going ON!”

Yes, yes he does.

After a minute, Mrs Husband looks back to see who is on the bus. I wiggle four fingers behind Buttcrack Bentley’s head, and all hell breaks loose.

“CHARLES!” Mrs Husband rushes toward me, causing Buttcrack Bentley to curl up against the wall of the bus, his head shaking more than ever. Mrs Husband wants nothing to do with him. In a blur of hair, cigarette smoke and a faint whisper of booze and cookies, she gives me a hug that made the whole day better.

“My gawd, you look so different!” (I’d shaved my beard and grown about a foot of hair since she’d seen me last.) “You look good.”

“I *thought* that was him,” said The Husband. “But I wasn’t sure. All that hair really changes things.”

“I was going to demand my Stoner Cookies, but didn’t want to raise eyebrows on the bus.” Mrs Husband is a world-class baker.

Mrs Husband said, “I have a bunch at the bar. Want me to get you some?”

Tempting, but… “I’m sure these nice folks would like to get home soon. Raincheck?”

“Husband has some. Make him give them to ya!” Poof! She was gone.

After Buttcrack Bentley deboarded, I walked to the front and chatted with The Husband. He’s incredibly good-natured, considering how relentless I am at flirting with his wife. He pulls out a Tupperware container with three cookies in the bottom. “Ain’t many, but they are the fucking best.”

The walk home was quiet. A cop car eased past, eyeballing me. Cookie, officer? It’s all I’ve got to offer.

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