wearin' a suit, fingernails clean dont - dont give no right to ignore me! G Give no rights! I talkin'!
What I say! Motherfuckers! Good as you! Fuckin' shit fuckin' ! Kill you! Gonna kill! Cut cut you!
Fool clerk! Trash! No better! Yeah! Oh Yeah! Yeah! . . "
The bus driver, a small Chinese man, glanced back saying nothing -
even when, the next moment, the man suddenly screamed and went rigid, his arms snapping back
over his head, and the knife screeched fiercely on the window glass.
When Linda looked up, he was crumpled, drooling, breathing noisy into his chest.
the Ladies & the Drunk & the sweet Date
She finished doing her nails.
After two stops he got off and stumbled from the last step when the bus raced away.
He ran after it, shouting and fumbling for the knife somewhere in his pocket.
Darkness engulfed him.
Three seats behind the driver a woman snorted disgustedly and began a loud diatribe with
the friend beside her whose face was so the thick with powder that her cheeks stormed
whenever she wriggled her nose.
She got dandruff of the face, Linda thought.
"The people they let on on nowadays! Any degenerate with a quarter can get on!
No one's got any manners anymore! America's become the garbage dump for foreigners!"
The woman turned, to the audience she imagined.
"It's got so you hear more Mexican and Chinese than American these days. . ."
Her friend nodded, agreeing sweetly, her nose twisting like an injured worm over flaking face.
"Why don't you shut up your big mouth, you lazy fat beach!"
The woman turned around, her head quaking indignantly.
Her friend froze.
It came from the back of the bus.
" . .huuu . . What do you think you are?" he lurched up, an egg-white liver-spotted hand
shooting like a bleached twig from the outsized sleeve of his overcoat.
There was no answer, and he sank down.
There, muttering and whistling, he raised a bottle of white wine to his lips.
It splashed down his skinny throat.
And the two ladies stared their frightened faces into the rearview mirror of the Chinese bus driver.
He saw them, and he saw the drunk on the very last seat along the back of the bus.
And he noticed too the young couple, on the right side, sharing it with him.
He mumbled "Good Luck" in Cantonese.
Against the window, the girl peered past her boyfriend at the drunk, now absorbed in an intimate
tête-à-tête with the glistening mouth of the Chablis bottle. Her eyes rounded wide in fascination
and she held her breath, as if he were a rare butterfly whose dedicate wings could shatter at the
slightest, wrong gush of air. Her date stared straight ahead.
"Let's move," she whispered, slowly exhaling into his ear.
"No, it's okay," he replied, nervously, "He's just a drunk. He's harmless."
"Oh. Where are we?" She asked.
"I don't know."
"When will we get there? We'll be late!"
"Soon. We'll be there soon."
"I thought you knew how to get there," she accused him, "This is a terrible bus. I hate buses.
All these filthy, smelly people. Ugh."
"Sharon, don't worry. . .," he patted her hand, "The movie isn't going to run away."
"I want to see it from the beginning!"
"You will . . ."
"Whaa . .What movie you goin' to?" the drunk weaved at him, red eyes searching
for the boy's voice. "Hey, you a guy?"
"Of course - yes!"
"Yussure? Sounded like a girl ..," he squinted, " . . dass awright . . . Queers are good people . . .
. . . .I got some friends . . . Queers . . ."
"I'm not . . !"
"I'm the girl!" Her blond head shot into view, "Me!"
The drunk linked.
For moment, he thought his mind was tricking him again.
". . Oh, yesss, how'd yu do . . Sorry, fella. No offense unnerstand . . . Still though . .
Queers are okay . . People, just like everybody else - 'cept for them two loudmouth Lesbians
up front!" he yelled.
"Well, I never. .!" The lady withering, getting to stand up only halfway because her friend,
gasping in surprise, held her and pulled her back down. Powder snowed to her shoulders
as she - shaking her head, a look of terror on her face - whispered excitedly.
"Dass right, lady. Restrain the slut!" he shouted.
the Lesbians & the Masturbator
Sitting beside the rear exit, two young beautiful women glared at him.
Though almost identical twins, there was a difference which sharply distinguished them.
One girl had a face more linearly severe than her lover's; features that were more withdrawn,
and tightened with a kind of poised, fatless ferocity that beamed from within her.
She looked at him destructively.
And in spite of the blinding Chablis, he noticed.
". .'cuse me . . . No offense meant. .," he mumbled slyly.
Her androgynous beauty mesmerized him - but she thought what riveted his attention to her
was her own powerful will. She wanted to intimidate, to brand him with her displeasure, to skewer
him wiggling to the wall. She was sick of Philistines! She was sick of understanding others!
Who understood her? Drunk or not, he was responsible!
Clutching her lover's hand, she relaxed her face so it softened and she kept it for a moment like
that, in an ingenuous mask - the drunk half smiled. Then, as if her mind slowly were filling with
the raw intentions of Hell, her face moved through expressions that sought ever harsher, more
withering meanings; her lips chased after an unambiguously cruel line. But, unfortunately, she
was an amateur at such theatrics, so he was only more entranced. His pendulous lower lip
trembled in admiration at the sexual dynamics of her face.
Yet it was more than admiration.
He reached down past the bottle in his overcoat - he had an erection!
He clutched it, confused.
For this was a hardness he had almost forgotten about.
Was it not washed away long ago by drink, like a gnarled old root by rain?
Now, all at once, sex rounded fully blooded in his hand this terrible, sudden gift.
Fear told him it would soon melt away. Was he dreaming?
No. It was there, stiff as the neck of the bottle.
And he was angry. Once -in how many years!
Suddenly, desire shook him. Desire to be beaten by her, desire to be pummeled by her soft
small hands, desire to be abused, desire to be engorged, blood rushing up to his sad, bruised
skin.
Desire to be made hard - forever!
So in his mind, dazed, he slumped in a familiar, garbage-strewn alley, with his cheek numbed
on the cold, tarry pavement, and in front of his eyes trembled a crumpled cellophane wrapper
in which was reflected in shards the cloudy morning sky - and her handsome face.
Her lips parted, like the red-tinged edges of a wound.
He gasped - and she thought she had found her most malevolent expression.
It was more than he could bear - he rubbed his organ, his fingers slid on the startled, silken prick.
Beside him the couple could not help but notice.
The girl, clutching her boyfriend's arm, gaped at the agitation in the man's pocket.
He gulped, wondering want to do. She blushed giddily.
"He's playing with himself!" She blurted.
"Nawh, he's just itchy . . . fleas," said he, scratching behind his ear.
"No . . .no, he is!"
the School Girls
The bus had stopped. The door opened.
Five girls in parochial school uniforms trooped in.
First they bunched at the front, a titter of white blouses, gray sweaters, short pallid skirts, socks
rising to scuffed knees; then, by a mumbled, near telepathic signal, they marched directly to the
back of the bus; and giggled when they spotted the beautiful Lesbian squeeze her lover's hand.
Then they noticed the drunk and his pulsating overcoat.
They grabbed their faces, sputtered, slapped hands over mouth, rolled their eyes, gagged, their
giggles broken by the edges of fingers against their lips; they clustered tightly together -
as if for safety - and their ribboned, banged, and pony-tailed heads bobbed and sank, like the
fresh craniums of birdlings jousting for a worm.
"Jesus, when will this bus get there?" The boyfriend muttered, his girl staring at the window glass
where her ghost pondered back at her, with the gray curve of the sidewalk rushing pass her brow.
She pressed her palm on the cold glass and shivered.
the Masturbator again
The drunk masturbated rapaciously.
One of the school girls, the tall one, gazed down at herself.
It occurred to her that since she was pretty, maybe her skirt had bunched up exposing her
tempting thighs.
Maybe he was jerking off on her!
It made her weak. She surveyed herself - front, from the sides, behind.
No. Her skirt fell in the usual pleats down to her knees. Not her, she was decent. But who then?
By her suddenly modest blush, and inspection of her dress, she communicated to her friends;
red flashed through their cheeks, and their group wound tighter together, propelled by aware,
offended glances. Each girl was convinced that one of their bodies - if not all their bodies at
once - was engulfing the poor man in flames.
He panted, the ends of his overcoat flicked up In a fury around him. Now he was using both hands.
They glanced at each other sly, sparkling eyes.
"Ooohh, Jesss!" the boyfriend said.
"Hey, asshole! You! Asshole!" Asserted the handsome Lesbian.
The drunk stiffened.
A thread of saliva uncoiled over his lower lip into space, as his moan cascaded toward the
whimpers which shook him like tiny blows.
"What are you doing, creep!"
But she was too late, he fell back on the seat. She had ravaged him.
She sneered at his crumpled body, dismissing him with a blow of air from a corner of her mouth.
The Lesbians got up and moved to a seat at the front of the bus.
Boredom
And the school girls sighed, rapidly becoming bored.
For them, time now scuffed long. Each moment was a yawning abyss, and eternity brooded
in the numbing flicker of the fluorescent lights. The dating couple relaxed, relieved. The steady
whine of the engine, the garish quiet, now seemed comforting. Red lights were obeyed with
softening stops, green lights responded to with a gentle heave. Red. Green. Red. Green.
A bus stop.
There was a pneumatic wheeze: the doors opened, the doors shut.
Then the sound - as of a windblown mobile - of coins jingling into the farebox.
Linda looked up, blowing on her nails.
He was a tall, crater-faced man in a green turtleneck sweater.
She sniffed at a wake of sweet cologne as he went directly to the back of the bus.
The smell vaguely nauseated her.
Three blocks later, the bus stop again.
the Nazi Dwarf
A dwarf climbed aboard.
An SS Storm Trooper cap perched on the knob of his inflated head.
A silver torque twisted around his neck. He had a leather jacket, and his tight jeans seemed
to wrench farther apart his already bowed legs. He had long, luxurious eye lashes.
One ear was pinned with a pearl stud.
And he smiled; his mouth was wide, his lips thin.
He looked like a rough-trade poodle.
Linda was startled when she glanced around and saw him beside her.
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