$2.50 per day

The bus is one of my most and least favorite parts of our tiny little world here in Belo. It gives me a chance to breathe, read, and prepare for a day – as well as unwind, sit quietly, and look forward to a solemn evening of literature, spaghetti, and film. But it also makes me anxious, annoyed, and amazed at the filth of the bus-riding public. I turned to page 237 of Rushdie’s “Midnight’s Children,” and I was entranced. Even the crashing bumps couldn’t take my eyes from the rhythm of the left to right. Until a sneeze came upon the man sitting beside me. Rather than raising a hand to cover the exiting liquid, the nice man turned his face toward me and my midnight children, spraying the slime onto my forearm and page 237. I sat in the back seat one afternoon, squashed between two squishy women who must have forgotten to shower for the past fortnight. One of them, nearest the open window, was chewing on individually wrapped candies. The fruity smell coming from her pack would have made the situation a bit more pleasant had she not been throwing each wrapper out into the wind, out onto the already-litter-ridden passing streets. [At this point, I asked myself why there are so many Environmental Ministries in the world, why there are thousands of books and articles and documentaries out there warning about what is happening to our poor planet, why I spend so much time scrubbing out peanut butter jars, reusing shampoo bottles, warding off Styrofoam if there are people like this woman all over the world.] She seems to be enjoying her candy, though, which is wonderful. And, today, I sat three rows from a man who seemed to be texting a friend. Suddenly a noise came from his phone – extremely loud music. I figured it was just his obnoxious ringtone, but apparently he must have left his headphones at home, because he had decided to grace this Monday afternoon’s passangers with the high-pitched thumping sounds - not unlike that of two individuals having intercourse - of a Brazilian banda he fancies. No matter how many surprised looks I shot at Peter, or how many sharp glares I directed straight at the DJ, the “music” carried us all the way to our stop.