Wednesday Midnight Mass

[blustocking]

Los Angeles Metro Church North 156.

The worshippers took their seats, 12:37am. The preacher stood, facing his weary audience...he looked straight at me.

"Dead as a doornail" he said. I looked away. He asked the snickering crowd, or the Holy Ghosts in his head, if we would like a needle...or some thread perhaps. There was no response. The preacher continued to puff on a cheap, wrapped cigar. Now it was time for the one-man choir to murder Hymn 596, "Proud Mary". And so he did. A few parishioners clapped, a few more left the church.

The preacher, silenced by the wavering strains of the one-man choir, left the pulpit with this advice,

"Don't worry, you can all have Chop Suey...with flied lice."

I sat weary, watchful, cold, compact...until the prophecy was revealed. Sitting at my feet in the aisle, a scraggly, middle-aged devotee, carrying his home on his back, half-turned to me and said with a sigh,

"It sure is 2002."

We are not alone.
___________________

That had to be the fucking scariest bus ride ever...for me at least. Not only was I the only female on the bus, but the only white person. Which I don't mind, but others notice. Not only am I white, but I am WHITE. Heh, all this waiting for buses is making me get an effing tan though. Damn me and my genes. What an apocolyptic experience. NYC, you have nothing on LA when it comes to giving me a late-night heebie-jeebie. Luckily, all that training as a "gothic princess"(as Robert used to call me) came in handy with cold stares and "don't fuck with me" postures.

So the lamb, the black sheep, is home, safe, finally. She took off her clothes immediately and noticed the effects of constant walking to bus stops and everywhere inbetween and she was pleased. She put on her grey, cotton tank top and noticed how it made her breasts look quite pleasing. She shuffled softly to the kitchen to get some milk, where she stood in the dim light, drinking and lazily examining the new blister on her left foot. Finished, she looks around for that surly mass of black fur that seems to comfort her. She carefully picks the sleeping mass from the chair and turning off the light, carries him into her bedroom. Holding his heavy body, she nuzzles his soft fur, breathing in the smell of kitty-comfort. The lamb is tired. She must sleep.

Ni-ni.

Comments

[mrsassypants.livejournal.com]

bukowski fills the tank on a LA metro bus.

i can imagine it would keep me even more warm late at night.

i always said pretty women shouldnt ride buses. but i take that back.

they should.

we need something to look at.

yesterday,217 lumbering down hollywood blvd. a seat next to this blonde skirt with a low cut V, canyon-esq cleavage, hipster stacked boots. She was reading. It was crowded and the menu was her and a 50 year old latino grocery cart lady (you know the type). I sat down with her and began reading my materials. I strained a muscle peeking at her chest. It was pearl white. What can I say. Im a boy. She wasnt particularly attractive. In fact, i could feel her defenses, her shields, her dagger just hidden under her short skirt waiting to slice my fingers if i turned the page wrong. She was that tense. She was broke, she was eager and nervous. I smelled her fear.

The bus cleared out, i could have easily moved to an open two-seater to give her some room, but i didnt. I wanted to see how long she would take it. I also would have loved to have something happen in which to strike up a conversation. A bump in the road tossing her book on the floor, or in my lap, a raving preacher to make an smarting comment about (such as your case)...anything between Vine and Vermont to make those 10 minutes a little better.

Not happening. Im too shy to initiate. And too often women have such a guard up, they think a conversation = 'i want you to suck my cock', which might be the case 75% of the time, with me its not. I like to entertain the idea, but the bus will always be taking me home to something greater. Whether I wear this fact on my chest like a badge or i reak of the 75%...I'll never know. Like my flirtatious Scotch grandpa, he's all take, smiles and warmth, but harmless as a hummingbird. He has nearly 70 years with the same women. Nothing can break his heart but her. My wife, when she rode the subway daily, she had a conversation with a stranger nearly every day. She practically asked for strangers to talk to her. Shes not icy like this girl. Sometimes she got creeped, others not. She very often met very nice people, women and men. Thats all I want.

nonetheless.

She got out of the seat. I took one last peek at her bumbling cleavage bouncing all over the place crossing Western. She moved to a seat up front.

Pffft. Uppity I thought. She wasnt even terribly attractive. Had a witches nose, deep eye sockets and looked terribly unhappy, but she had a body that wouldnt quit, skirt and boots that broke hearts and well, on a bus, a wandering eye takes what it can get.

She then switched seats again. We stopped at Normandie and Hollywood. her stop. She grabbed her suitcase from the tire well by the front door. Realizing where I was, she HAD to be working at Jumbos. I would bet money on it. It all made sense. The guard, the dagger, the suitcase. To her I was a customer and I hadnt tipped. Perhaps if i had slipped a dollar in her book she would have came alive. Or not. Who the fuck knows.

I'll have to ask my friend who dances there about this girl. She seemed new, nervous and extra icy.

Are you extra icy on the bus?

nice :)

[blustocking.livejournal.com]

I'm self-contained, uncaring, taking everything in behind dark glasses.