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an amalgam of idiots
September 27, 2006
this is even less amusing and enjoyable if you haven't read "a confederacy of dunces," by some dude named o'toole, who, unlike terrell, succeeded in killing himself.
he heaved his ponderous bulk across the sidewalk in the stifling morning heat. his bulk had grown less ponderous in the months of his unemployment and accelerated athletic exertions, but he was still afflicted, as he would always be, with a curious propensity for perspiration. he remembered a favorite author saying that "humidity feels like hundreds of strangers touching me." it was the only line he recalled from the tome, largely because it resonated so completely with him - he certainly hated the humidity, and he hated being touched, by all but a select few members of the species. actually, he preferred being touched by some members of the genus, of the family, even, to members of his actual species.
he heard the bus roar along behind him, and wondered if it would stop for him this morning.
the driver on the 8:47am route had few eccentricities and joys allowed to him in his life, as a driver of one of the free commuter buses in austin, texas. unlike drivers of paid fare buses, he was a slave to the whims of passengers, who, spanning the gamut from tourist to genuine commuter to stench-ridden and delusional homeless person could board the bus at any corner for free, then simply pull a cord and demand that he let them off at the next stop.
he was very conscious that his work neither raised revenue for the city nor demanded respect of his passengers, and it galled the heart that beat beneath the festive shirt issued to him by the local metropolitan transit authority. the shirt portrayed happy buses rolling through a caricatured, flawless downtown area, and failed to betray the hatred that lay underneath it's 60/40 cotton/polyester surface.
occasionally, he would spy a putative passenger begin to rise from the bus stop bench, and he would quietly determine that the effort shown failed to clearly merit a stop on his route.
earl had several times failed to show enough verve to stop this particular driver, and on those occasions, his patience was rewarded
with the warm rush of exhaust, carrying dirt from the road in its wake and distributing it across the bus stop. he would curse loudly, more particularly if other people were waiting at the stop, and when he pronounced the more sibilant consonants, he felt the grit between his teeth.
but on this morning, earl looked back frequently and made knowing little nods and waves to the oncoming driver, such that both came to a stop with a heavy blended huff of taxed lungs and airbrakes. earl then boarded, sorted through the daily menagerie of itinerant domestic help, hipsters, and homeless people talking loudly to themselves about the varied merits of red vs. blue aluminum cans, and settled warily into a bench seat.
he looped his left arm through the strap of his duffle bag for security, both against the prying arms and sly hands of the other passengers, and the swaying and lurching of the cursed mechanical abomination that he braved on a daily basis to reach his latest place of employment.
he had, however, discovered that the motion-related nausea that had plagued him for much of his adult life had regressed to its manageable childhood levels, so he rummaged in his duffle to pull out the borrowed copy of a confederacy of dunces.
to be continued... hey, it's a start.
Posted by Rob at September 27, 2006 11:52 PM
Comments
Cool - I dig it...keep it coming!
Posted by: Julia at September 29, 2006 05:54 PM