Nobody Rides For Free

He knows, oh, he knows. He knows EXACTLY what he's doing. You. Sir. SIR! You with the Donlands transfer, yes YOU sir, don't pretend you can't hear me, I KNOW you hear me. You CAN NOT USE that transfer to get into the station; you HAVE TO GET OFF here- this is the LAST STOP for you, sir. The entire bus resonated with her bullhorn hawkishness. Middle aged, overflowing in her seat, with processed yellow hair and thick black lines drawn across her lids, she commandeered the 56 like she was driving the Secret Service's motorcade. This is what Kit's mom calls a harpy. Mean, crotchety, and righteously indignant. It was obvious to the rest of the riders that this older East Indian man who was apparently subverting the system by riding illegally with the wrong paper transfer was ignorant of his actions. He barely spoke English. She Ra of the Bus Co. ceaselessly berated and threatened this man in full voice at 1:30 on a Wednesday afternoon while driving through East York. An ancient passenger with fuschia lipstick and a broken down shopping cart began bellowing back. Kit dove deeper into How To Be Here Now, the latest in the never ending cache of self help books she compulsively devours. Talk about practicing stillness and detachment. Just two more stops before the harridan rolled into the station where she could flag down a Constable and make sure this malicious grifter would get his comeuppance. Kit was starting to panic. Just let me off the bus, let me off the bus. She kept her eyes low, brought the book up to her face and wedged herself up against the rear doors. In for 3 counts, out for 4. Onetwothree beat  onewothreefour. Beads of moisture were forming on Kit's upper lip. Her armpits were spilling sweat like a sieve. Just. Open. The. Door. OPEN THE DOOR.

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