It’s late. Or early, depending on how you want to figure time. I’m finally on my way home along the dark and mostly deserted street. Shops closed, street lights casting their pink-yellow light on the dingy sidewalk. I can hear it coming, because nothing else is making a noise, not even my black Chucks on the pavement. It’s going fast, coming up behind me, as we both approach the slightly off kilter intersection. I turn to hail it, hoping that I will shorten the distance I have to walk.
It blows past me, the tonnes of plastic and metal. I see the driver react late, seeing the movement from my hand in the street light out of the corner of his eye. He jerks the wheel and brakes, but the bus slaloms and it turns into a skid, sideways, heading towards the brightly lit, and complementarily coloured, gas station on the corner. I’m still slightly far enough from the intersection that I watch as the bus disappears behind a building and I wait to hear the explosion. Nothing.
I keep walking, flipping my black hood up on my head now. As I come to the acute/obtuse angled intersection, the gas station is intact. The bus is nowhere to be seen. But the yellow-gold of a route name is approaching from the opposite direction. A single digit, but I know it will take me closer to my destination. This time, I am close enough that I make it to the bus stop. I sit on the back of the bench, feet on the seat, under an old style street light that is not lit. I watch as the bus approaches.
It doesn’t stop. Perhaps I was invisible in my black zip up hoodie in the darkness.
I keep walking along the narrow, two lane street lined with darkened little boutique style shops. I hear another roaring engine. I turn, hand held aloft to flag it down but to no avail. The 80X drives by, the female driver not even seeing my feeble attempt.
So I keep walking.