Dear 57 bus line,
Two years ago- after 4 years of driving without a license, insurance, and registration. And after 4 years of having tiny heart attacks whenever I saw the police. And after 4 years of driving in a zigzag pattern through residential side streets and randomly parking where ever the fuck at the slightest hint of po-po, I decided to sell my car.
That’s when I started riding your thick metallic ass.
It hasn’t always been honey and sunshine between us. You have had me waiting longer than I should at times. You, 57 Bus Line, are erratic as shit. When you show up at odd hours, it leads to me having to chase after you. Sometimes I would have to dart through fucking traffic, Frogger-Style. Which is the worst since it’s hard to look fat and sexy when you’re fat and wheezing…and trying to find exact change.
And those meeting spots where I stood waiting for you to pick me up? Not cool, 57 Bus Line. Real shitty, 57 Bus Line. Almost every time, the only other people waiting there with me was: 1. A weirdo in a 1987 Starter Jacket and felt pants, who had a visible boner. 2. A buff homeless man trying to sell me a cell phone that’s bigger than my head. 3. A pissed off Mexican woman. 4. Three hookers of varying degrees of “daddy issues”. Not cool. Interesting, but not cool.
But I always waited patiently because you always got me where I needed to go.
And since we’re being honest, sometimes you stink, 57 Bus Line. Sometimes when I slide inside you it feels like I just got slapped by a wool blanket soaked in wet garbage. (Also, It’s what I imagine a witch’s vagina would feel like.) And sometimes you smell like hot dogs and rubber bands. I can live with that though. I’ve had past rides that were worse.
But I have this feeling that you might think of me as distant. Maybe it’s because I’m always reading and you think I’m not paying attention. Maybe it’s because I’m always staring out the window watching Oakland pass by like a photo album and not looking your way. But don’t worry, Baby Doll, I’m there with you. I’m listening. Actually, my favorite thing to do is to listen to you. The rumble of your engine. The squeal of your brakes. And especially, the pack of teenage girls in the back, who are always talking about how they’re “going to molly wop some bitch as soon as they get back to the East.”