When I stepped on the bus, it was already a sardine can of afternoon commuters, students, and worn out housekeepers making the long trek from Scottsdale and Paradise Valley to Mesa, Guadalupe, and Apache Junction. There were no seats to be had. If it wasn’t for the fact that the walk was a long one and I was double exhausted from being locked up in that warehouse all day, I probably would’ve gotten off at the next stop and walked the rest of the way. It was so crowded that even the usual attempts people make to not notice the people around them failed; most of the time, people will their heads whatever direction they have to in order to avoid looking at someone else on the bus. Avoiding eye contact is one of the first rules. Eye contact – even brief or accidental – implies a certain intimacy. A private joke. A connection of some sort. It doesn’t take much to go from unintentionally catching someone’s eye to exchanging semi-knowing glances. Better not to look anywhere at all.
But that was impossible; no matter what direct I turned my head, there was always someone to look at. My feet and back hurt from standing on cement all day. I felt the cash in my pocket, but it didn’t feel like enough. I knew that the money I got for my day’s labor was only part of the money the agency got for supplying me. Probably not even half. What bullshit. For the money they pay out for temps, that company could just hire some people full time. I tried not to think about it; after all, it wasn’t as if I wanted a full-time job there.
Whenever I have to demean myself and resort to working, I end up thinking about every job I’ve ever had. My first job lasted two weeks. I was still in high school, and I was determined to be independent. So I applied for the first job I found that required me to drive there. I worked at a car wash – one of those automatic scrub /hand dry and detailing places. I didn’t work more than five days out of the week, from 3:30 until the place closed at 8. The boss was a guy named Ted. Ted was friendly. His shirt was always clean and neatly tucked in. Mostly he sat in his office and did whatever it was that car wash managers did all day.
I only got paid if I was actually working on a car. But there was a significant amount of downtime. That meant if there weren’t any cars to hand dry, vacuum, and detail, we sat in the break room and waited. Most of the guys I worked with were out of work carpenters – the economy was slow for construction in the fall and winter, and since they were non-union labor, there was very little any of them could do. They’d sit in the break room, chain smoke, complain about their wives, their kids, and Ted. And when cars started rolling in, we’d get off our asses. After two weeks I earned $40. When I quit Ted wasn’t surprised. I went to give him my two weeks and he let me off without having to wait them out.
What I learned was that a man’s time is only worth what some overpaid asshole says it is; that’s the only truth about work that matters. I knew a lot of people in college who thought, like I did, if we did what we were supposed to do and jumped through the hoops and get the piece of paper, there’d be a nice job waiting for us. What was waiting, though, was another series of hoops. And when you get through those, there’s another series of hoops. Having a career is just a long series of hoops that you jump; it’s intended to keep you busy so that you don’t notice you’re being underpaid, underappreciated, and dehumanized. And when it’s all done at the end of the day, you end up feeling grateful that there’s someone who’s willing to take advantage of you; you end up looking forward to that time clock, that alarm, that Casual Friday and cocktails with the guys from the office after work. And by the time you’re really done, you’re too old to be able to do anything about the fact that your life was stolen in pursuit of some rich motherfucker’s early retirement.
I’d had a lot of different jobs, and all of them had the same problem. They were all mind-numbing, soul robbing experiences where I was constantly surrounded by people who were too dumb to know they were being scammed. Working a regular job, day in, day out, is just a process of underselling yourself to the better bidder. It never matters how much you know or how good of a job you do. As a matter of fact, the people who are most successful are the ones who stop short of brilliance; whether you’re stacking pallets in a warehouse or filing in an air-conditioned office, being successful has little to do with being considered a good employee. All you have to do is look busy when the boss comes by, and look like you’re accomplishing some part of the task set before you. I read somewhere that some report came out claiming the average office worker only does five hours worth of work in an eight hour day. I bet some big company paid for that study; that way they could justify bullying and underpaying people. Well, I’ve been a janitor and I’ve been a file clerk, and I’ve worked in warehouses and in factories making everything from slipper socks to water purification units for the Army. And it’s all the same shit. The company’s got you by the nuts because they know you’ve got bills, kids, responsibilities. You go in every morning tired. You leave exhausted. You collect your pay and it never quite stretches as far as it needs to. And at the end of the day, you end up on an overcrowded bus with no air conditioning and a driver who hasn’t learned the difference between air brakes and disc brakes.
With every stop, it seemed like more people were getting on than were getting off, and the seats always filled up before I could fight my way to it. My feet were starting to throb inside my shoes. It’s never worth it, I thought. I earn about the same amount of money selling plasma as I do this shit. And at least the plasma center is air-conditioned. I had to remind myself that I couldn’t just sell plasma everyday… and I’d probably need to work another couple of days just to build up enough cash. For what, I didn’t know. That’s another thing about work. It never stops. You work because you have bills to pay and you have bills to pay because you need a place to sleep when you’re not at work.
Sometimes people on the bus listen to music as a way to drown out everyone else. Some people do crossword puzzles or read books. The kind and quality of books vary. Escape seems to be the most important quality people consider in deciding what book to read on the bus. Lots of romance and science fiction. There’s also a lot of religious and self-help reading. Sudoku.
I was busy trying not look around when I noticed somebody else trying not to look around. She was standing by the back door, steadying herself on a pole and staring out the window. Lucky, I thought. She was a cute girl. Dressed like she was on her way home from some office job. Jet black hair that was short cropped and carefully styled not to look styled. Pale porcelain skin. The hint of a tattoo stuck out on the back of her neck, crawling up from her back. Her lips were full and perfect and red. Her eyes were covered with large sunglasses that very nearly covered her entire face. Nice curves in all the right places. Even with people pushing past her to get out the door, she stood like statue and let the crowd of people fall on either side of her like water. I wondered what girl like that thought about, staring out the window.
I tried to not watch her. But I couldn’t help myself. It was as if every other person on the bus was pushed into the background. With every stop and inevitable shift in people, she stood immobile. Her refusal was beautiful. It was gorgeous. The more I didn’t watch her, the more I wanted to talk to her; but I didn’t know what to say or where to being. I could never understand how guys could just walk up to a beautiful woman they didn’t know and start talking to them. I could barely hold a long conversation with people I’d been around for months, and most of the time I was perfectly fine to speak to as few people as possible. I couldn’t remember the last conversation I initiated.
Seeing a beautiful woman only reminds me I’m lousy at relationships. I’ve known a few women. A couple of them were even worth taking seriously. I even married one of them. But that didn’t last. The same thing always happened that always happens. Her last words to me were, “You need to grow up and decide whether you want this or not.” I guess that was supposed to cure me of whatever it was she thought my problem was. I didn’t cheat on her. I didn’t even drink that much back then. We’d married young; made that mistake that kids make all too often in assuming that love and passion are enough. We didn’t know what we wanted out of life; we only knew we wanted one another. We used our grandparents as examples. “They married young,” we’d tell people when they looked at us like we were stupid. “And look how that turned out.” We were in college, and had planned to move into married housing on campus. Being independent would qualify us for more student loans. It only made sense. At the time.
When it started to fall apart, everything became my fault. She wasn’t doing well in her classes and it was all my fault because she said I expected her to take care of me. “I have to cook dinner,” she complained, “and clean the house. All you do is go to school.”
“I told you I’d cook,” I would say. “And who said you HAVE to do anything around here?”
She ignored what I said and kept on trying to be June Cleaver. Eventually she decided she wanted kids. But I didn’t; and it became to her a symbol of how much I didn’t love her. So she moved back in with her mother. I moved out of the shitty little house we were living in. Three months later, I got a certified letter in the mail informing me I was divorced.
Seeing any beautiful woman always reminds me of just one. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not much of a romantic. But there’s always that one – the one that sticks. Luna was the one who stuck. She was beautiful and young and she made me smile. But the timing was all wrong. I was still married. Luna was just this side of 18. There wasn’t anything about her I didn’t like. Her laugh was intoxicating. The touch of her soft skin made me forget how miserable I was. When she came around, I thought she was chasing one of my friends – this guy I crashed with when I left my wife. He was a swimmer. All the girls wanted him. But Luna wanted me. I think, given another set of circumstances, I could’ve fallen in love with her – if I can really fall in love with anybody, that is.
That went to hell one night when we were laughing and drinking cheap wine. I don’t really know how it all got started. I don’t remember if I kissed her or if she kissed me. Somewhere between the first sip and the bottom of the bottle we were naked. I spent a lot of time just touching her – running my fingers along every bit of her skin. Arms, legs, inner legs, thighs, breasts, neck. I was inexorably drawn to her belly button. I spent a lot of time around her stomach, kissing and touching her belly button as I worked my way down to her pussy. I spent so much time touching her because I was a little too drunk to get it up. Then I kept returning to the same place, her belly button, the most beautiful spot in the world.
But the next morning when I drove her back to her place, we rode in together silence. And she never spoke to me after. I’d see her around campus, or with mutual friends. The last time I saw her, she ran away from me. Like I’d done something wrong. When I talked to friends, they were vague.
I spent a couple of years thinking I’d done something wrong; but eventually the memory and the details fade. I remember less as the years pass. Now it only crops up every once in while – that slight weight in the pit of the stomach that happens when the body chooses to remember what the mind has the courtesy to forget.
That feeling returned on the bus, like it did whenever I saw a beautiful woman. And yet I was also struck with a sudden need to speak to the porcelain skinned woman. A longing. I wanted to know what her skin felt like to touch. I wanted to see what color her eyes were. I imagined them a bright green, like the color of her toe nail polish. Whatever color they were, I knew they would be wide and piercing. I imagined myself working my back to her on the crowded bus. Completely casual. Completely at ease. Small talk. I’d listened to enough of it to know what it sounded like. Make some crack about the crowded bus. Or the heat outside. Maybe ask her about her tattoo. No, I thought. Too personal. What would I talk about, then? I could ask her what kind of work she does. That’s one of those opening lines people use. I decided against it, though, because I would have to answer the same question. Forget it. Don’t talk about work. Talk about something else. Maybe she’s into baseball. I looked for some detail in the way she looked – something to give me an excuse. Maybe she would drop a pen or something. She carried a medium sized purse. I could tell her that her wallet was falling out and then be mistaken. “Oops,” I’d say with a silly smile. “Sorry about that. Must’ve been the way the light was coming in. That’s what I get for losing my sunglasses.” I don’t even own a pair of sunglasses. But she wouldn’t know that. Then she’d smile and we’d start talking.
Nah, I thought. That sounds stupid. A girl like that probably has a boyfriend anyway. Maybe she’s about to get engaged. I didn’t like that possibility. So I changed it. Maybe she’s just working a regular day job because she’s in a band. I liked that one. It would explain the punkish hair and the tattoo. Maybe she has other tattoos – ones with stories. Things she wants to remember.
I was in the middle of creating another life for her when she looked up. She must have noticed me looking at her. I guess I could’ve looked away quickly; but instead, I tried to smile, shrug my shoulders. An apology of sorts. Just then, the back door opened and she got off the bus, along with a bunch of other people. Some seats were opening up in the back.
I considered getting off the bus and following her. Maybe she was waiting for a connection and that would give me an excuse to talk to her. After all, the busses never ran on time. It would be something to talk about, at least. I moved towards the door, still unsure of what I was going to do. When I got to the back door, they slid shut. I could have said something to the driver; but I didn’t. What the hell would I have said to her anyway? I thought. Instead, I took an empty seat next to an older woman. She was reading a book about smart investments for senior citizens.
I looked out the windows across from me. There were still a few more stops before mine. As the bus pulled off into traffic, I looked around to see if the porcelain skinned girl was there – if I had missed my chance.
She was gone. But the weight in my stomach stayed until got to the bar and finished my first beer.
