Sunday, October 6, 2019

Traffic on this street is slower than a funeral and not as happy. Three cars ahead of us, a street sweeper is following a trash truck. Arrows on its back are blinking, suggesting that we go around it, but there are cars parked on one side and a median strip on the other. Drivers here will hop curbs to park on sidewalks, but the strip along here is too narrow. I got the next-to-last seat on this express bus. People in the aisles wobble and lurch each time the bus inches forward. A soldier's gun bangs into the metal pole near the exit steps. People on either side of me are listening to loud music on their phones. The high-frequency percussion that leaks from their earbuds is almost, but not quite, in sync. I can see that the person one row ahead of me, across the aisle, is listening to a gentle track from "Electric Ladyland." Good idea. I'm squeezed tight against the cargo pants of the person next to me, but if I could get my phone out of my pocket, I would listen to it too. Until then, I close my eyes and try to appreciate the sounds and scents around me.