Blog #9 Down the Road

"That's right. My first day of rehab was the last day I used."

What a splendid day it was to ride the Line-57 from Forest Grove to Beaverton Transit Center. The sun would even shine through the dusty windows if it managed to beam through the intermittent cloud cover. Some guy was typing up notes in the seat across the isle from me and the boyfriend girlfriend couple on the back row found nothing better to talk about than cell phones. About half of the seats filled up as we waited at the Hillsboro Transit center and the couple that I was attempting to eavesdrop on decided to transfer. Even from the inside of the bus, the continuous whap whap whap of the diesel engine had been a set back in my conquest.  I even tore paper out to start writing! Drat!
I decided to casually change seats to be behind two new riders who were easily the loudest on the bus. Tara sat on the isle in a gray sweater, jeans and black sunglasses, casually perched on her spiked bleach-yellow hair. As she spoke with her friend, her partial pink highlight put up today in a side part caught the sun's rays but not as much as her hot rod blue eye liner and mascara. Ears flavored with Pac-Man cherry studs and top ring on the right side, she filled the other with an I-phone ear bud. Her neck has a black tattoo of music notes.
"Did you hear about the bombing?" a man in a Beavers ball cap chimes in. He sat across the isle, donning a GET name badge on his olive green collared shirt. He was mid forties, in black work shoes, khaki jeans, blue jacket and eyes. He clutched his black reading glasses in his worn hands has he scratched at his once black now graying facial beard.
"No," said Tara quickly continuing to look at the road ahead.
"In Boston?"
"No."
"There was a terrorist attack at the Boston Marathon," he continued as he adjusted his position on the seat to face his audience. "The Manager of the Forest Grove Dollar Tree was running in it. He called and said he was ok."
"Why does this happen," inquired Kathie, the rider seated next to Tara, taking a swig of her 16 oz Rockstar. Kathie wore not one but two sweaters, a black covered by an army green with one of those annoying fuzzy hoods. Her thick dishwater hair was done up in a black pony tail that didn't cover up her black gauges. As she turned to the man her green eyes catch mine and reveal a lip ring. More metal cover her pointer, index and ring fingers.
"The government sucks," butts in a black haired teen seated in front of the two women.
"Ya, it is Bush's fault," Tara exclaims as she looks back at her I-phone.
"I can't wait for WWIII, WWIV and WWVI," exclaims the teen once again. Even my eyebrows raised.
The Beavers man calmly rebuked the sentence, "No war is cool." He continued on about kids and grandkids with Tara and Kathie as we passed Tuality Hospital. The topic quickly shifted to the Rockstar clutched in Kathie's ringed hand. "I never got into energy drinks." The pink off of the can caught my attention as we turn the curve onto TV Highway and we halted. A large Latino group was about to get on.
Beavers man to Kathie,"If it gets crowded I'm gonna sit on your lap."
"No, I will sit on your lap," she fired back to Beavers man and then to Tara, "and you will sit on my lap."
We whap whap whaped down the road. They ask what each other's names are. Beavers man to Kathie, "you should get a shirt with your name on it." They all chucked.
The teen turns around one last time. "You know what they call me? The guy with the face." Ok.
Beavers man headed out at Murry Blvd and the two women at 185th. "That's right. My first day of rehab was the last day I used," said Tara as they stood up. She is missing a front incisor.
A regular joe takes their place as the ride continues down the road.