The 66 bus should just alter its route to pick me up directly in front of the house. I've been taking it just about every day this calendar year. And, most days (despite what Ben would tell you), it arrives every fifteen minutes or so. On the really gorgeous days, like today, it sits at the bottom of the hill, and waits for me to show up. But when it rains, it's nowhere to be found.
When I left the house on Monday it was neither beautiful nor raining. I put on my springish jacket, decided to leave my hat in my room, threw Rebound on to the front porch, and began walking down the hill. Naturally, it began to pour exactly halfway between the house and the bus stop. And, since I would be soaked no matter what I decided to do, I chose to run down the hill, and hope the bus would show up soon. It did not. While I waited, I read twenty-three pages of Augusten Burrough's Dry. For the irony. And when the bus came, packed to capacity with obscenity screaming teenagers, and doddering old ladies, I plodded on, and stood in the back.
I got off at Coolidge Corner for a bagel sandwich and soup, hoping the rain would die down a bit while I ate. But as I sat down, the employees began moving all the tables to the back of the store. This seemed ominous.
"Is there an open mic here tonight?" I asked, thinking who runs a music or a poetry event in a fucken bagel shop? Outside of Middletown Connecticut, I mean.
"No." The lady said. "It's a children's sing along."
I guzzled down my soup like it was water, and I'd been living in the desert for seven months (replete with me choking on said soup), jackaled down my bagel sandwich, and headed back into the rain. I'd rather stand still during the middle of a fecal rainstorm than endure even five minutes of a children's sing along.
Since I knew the odds of me seeing another 66 bus in the near future were slim, I decided to walk the rest of the way to Allston. Naturally, four buses passed me during the trip, each of them spaced just far enough apart so that I would be halfway between stops when they passed.
At the intersection of Commonwealth and Mass Avenue, three Korean girls were standing around a dead squirrel, that looked as though it had been flattened by a car, then bloated by the puddle of water it was resting in. I couldn't make out what the girls were saying, but it was either Aww, that poor squirrel is dead, how sad. or I'm really hungry today, let's kill another one.
And the thought of these three petite Korean girls, hunting squirrels with Thor's hammer (how else would they flatten them so thoroughly?) kept me smiling all the way to the next 66 bus stop, where an out of service bus sped past me, drowning me in its wake.