Bus Report #570 - Boston Edition
Cold night, waiting at the bus stop in Harvard Square with A. after class.
We talk about school and our pieces we've prepared for workshop. The bus is nowhere in sight.
"You girls in a writing group?" asks a man who stands behind us, leaning against the bus shelter.
A. and I exchange glances. "Yep," I tell him.
"It sounds great," he continues. "You know, I'm a writer, too."
A. and I shoot looks at each other again. Of course, I think. Of course this dude with beery breath and a thick Boston accent is a writer. Who isn't?
"Yeah," he says. "I draw the pictures, too, you know, Boston scenes? So people can read my book and know where each part takes place."
I nod. He says, "My book's about this guy... He hates his family and decides to become homeless and like, you know, screw with 'em? So he's homeless, right, then his family's lookin' for him and he's right there the whole time, only they don't recognize him."
"Sounds creepy," I say.
"There's no murder or violence or nothin'," he says. Murdah. "But you know, it's all like..."
"Psychological?" I offer.
"Nah. More like mental," he says.
He sees us grin at each other. He says, "I can tell you girls are like, 'who's this guy?' but I heard you talking about your writing group and I just had to say somethin'. I really hope you girls keep it up, you know? Where's the group anyway?" he asks.
I say, "Porter Square," and this seems to satisfy him.
The bus finally arrives and we get on and sit in the front of the bus.
The driver comes on over the PA system. "I apologize for being late," he says. "There was an accident on the bridge and we had to go all over creation and back to get here, so I apologize."
A driver apologizing? Wow. Later I would find out the accident was a hit and run with a six year old victim, still in the hospital today as far as I know.
We leave the square and zoom through Allston. At the corner by Blanchard's, the bus driver opens the door and spends a few minutes giving someone directions.
A. gets out at her stop and less than 5 minutes later, I get out, too.
We talk about school and our pieces we've prepared for workshop. The bus is nowhere in sight.
"You girls in a writing group?" asks a man who stands behind us, leaning against the bus shelter.
A. and I exchange glances. "Yep," I tell him.
"It sounds great," he continues. "You know, I'm a writer, too."
A. and I shoot looks at each other again. Of course, I think. Of course this dude with beery breath and a thick Boston accent is a writer. Who isn't?
"Yeah," he says. "I draw the pictures, too, you know, Boston scenes? So people can read my book and know where each part takes place."
I nod. He says, "My book's about this guy... He hates his family and decides to become homeless and like, you know, screw with 'em? So he's homeless, right, then his family's lookin' for him and he's right there the whole time, only they don't recognize him."
"Sounds creepy," I say.
"There's no murder or violence or nothin'," he says. Murdah. "But you know, it's all like..."
"Psychological?" I offer.
"Nah. More like mental," he says.
He sees us grin at each other. He says, "I can tell you girls are like, 'who's this guy?' but I heard you talking about your writing group and I just had to say somethin'. I really hope you girls keep it up, you know? Where's the group anyway?" he asks.
I say, "Porter Square," and this seems to satisfy him.
The bus finally arrives and we get on and sit in the front of the bus.
The driver comes on over the PA system. "I apologize for being late," he says. "There was an accident on the bridge and we had to go all over creation and back to get here, so I apologize."
A driver apologizing? Wow. Later I would find out the accident was a hit and run with a six year old victim, still in the hospital today as far as I know.
We leave the square and zoom through Allston. At the corner by Blanchard's, the bus driver opens the door and spends a few minutes giving someone directions.
A. gets out at her stop and less than 5 minutes later, I get out, too.
posted by Rachel at 12:14 PM
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