Hypothetical Bus Hustle

Sitting on the bus you can't help but look around and wonder. These people, these insane and beautiful people. Who consider you the same thing. I sit there, behind a pair of sunglasses and make stories up about my favorite strangers. Daydreaming is better than the sleeping dreams. You control them. They're yours. If I'm stoned it's game over, I have figuratively figured out their childhoods, sexual orientation, and bank account balance; all in my head.

[A melodramatic mix of the two.]

[You see my interest.]

Photos by the The Sartorialist.

Riding home on the 31 bus, I get on and there are maybe 7 other people riding. I sit near the front, too tired to care about the etiquette of leaving the front seats open for the elderly and misfortunate. I'm sitting there, statically stoned and loopy.

A man sitting across from me looks stern and unwavering, staring at the sign flashing the up-coming bus stop. He is out of his element, but not willing to let it be known. Rocking a faded hair cut, with long locks towering over a strong forehead. Sharp and unconsciously handsome, but with the hair, his tight black jeans and healed loafers, you'd think he was gay, but no, wait no, he almost wants you to think that.

Without reason or warning a woman's purse falls to the ground, scattering insignificant belongings all over. They lock eyes and he gathers them in a few swift moves, his expressions remains firmly vacant, his eyes uninterested. Carrying a worn in copy of The Great Gatsby, he gets out an outdated flip-phone and quickly puts it back in his pocket. "On crowded buses always protect purses and wallets..." He mouths the words without blinking, his version of a grin form on his lips. He's no stronger to the bus yet still prefers his Vespa. This isn't his neighborhood, he checks the bus stops too often. Sitting in the very first seat on the bus, bold move.

I attempt to take a picture but the woman sees me and throws "creeper" dart eyes in my direction. Without explanation or apology, he stands up and walks down the bus and stops in front of me. I look down, like a child whose been caught in the act. He sits, crossing his legs and stares directly at me. Why would he change seats? His eyes are grey and vacant, almost glazed over. We sit this way, I'm alternating stares between his left ear and his belt buckle. It's a duel almost and I try to convince myself he's playing the same game in his head. He's mostly trying to remember what was next on his Netflix list, hoping Cool Hand Luke is sitting in his mailbox.

I've been completely focused on this man, until he pulls the "Stop Requested" wire, and stands to get off. We're at 34th Avenue and Balboa and I quickly rush upward. This obsession of mine has made me miss my stop by 11 blocks and I scamper off down the steps, forgetting to yelp thank you at the bus driver, something I strive myself on doing. I walk behind him for a block before the fear of seeming like a stalker causes me to turn onto Anza. I glance back and his head is down as he crosses the street, nose buried in Gatsby. It's too dark for that and he spent the entire lit-up bus ride not reading. None of it makes sense.