Tabatha Deans

Bringing Integrity to the Written Word



          It’s hard to believe it’s actually December, as I waited for the 66 bus this morning, clad in jeans and a sweatshirt, watching the sun rise with temperatures in the 50’s. The stop for the 66 is at the corner of the field where the No Drama Llama lives, actually four llama live there, but this llama spends all of his time alone in the corner. I’ve taken the bus several days in a row, and the No Drama Llama is starting to like me. Initially he ignored me, and ran the other way when I approached. This morning, I stood at the curb and sang Christmas songs, and whistled, and when I turned around he was standing behind me, nose high in the air, either liking my singing or at the very least, curious about the woman who stood on the corner singing loudly. Luckily there are fields on all sides, so, much like running crazy down the streets of Mexico, nobody really noticed my early morning caroling.

          The 66 is usually full, carrying commuters to the light rail from the depths of suburbia, and the crowd is pretty tight-knit. I have resisted officially becoming one of them, but there was something in the fresh air this morning, combined with perhaps a bit of Christmas cheer, that prompted me to sit by the “secretary.” She’s very chatty, and will talk to anyone who listens, about anything at all. She gets off across from the Justice Center each morning, and today she told me she had given her two-week notice at her job yesterday, claiming she was too old to put up with bull&*$t at work.

          The blond brothers agreed. As far as I can tell they’re not actually brothers, but roommates in some kind of rehabilitation/halfway house program. In the evening they board the bus at the Justice Center, and I’ve heard them talk about passing their urinalysis. They’re both in their late 40’s, and this morning they spent their commute talking about the deluxe “man caves” they planned to build when they finally got their own place, with a pool table instead of a kitchen table.

          The secretary got off, and Rain Man got on. Rain Man appears to be in his mid to late 20’s, and always wears a crisply ironed white shirt with black slacks, with a belt cinched one notch too tight, making the waistband of his trousers bunch up. He’s a nice looking young man, with well trimmed hair and nails, and long elegant fingers. He gets on, smiles, and if nobody is in the front seat he’ll sit down. If somebody is already there, he stands near the driver. After about sixty seconds on the bus, he begins fumbling in his pocket, and produced a twisted yellow straw, the kind you would use to stir coffee with. His face relaxes and he starts humming quietly as he twists the straw in his fingertips, watching the other commuters and smiling to himself.

          Overall Route 66 is becoming one of my favorite commutes, at least until we hit the light rail. I usually commute out of town, but the 66 leaves me standing in line with angry commuters headed into town. It’s usually standing room only, with rude, inconsiderate people who feel the need to ignore others and push and butt their way to a spot on the train. I only travel two stops, so I stand back and watch the battle, then get on the train and stand in the stairwell watching the angry commuters ignore each other and fiddle with their phones, iPads and Kindles. And I can’t help but smile because I know the No Drama Llama secretly likes me.

December 5, 2012 - Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , ,

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