6N: 6:42

Austin Wolfe

He really did have a swastika tattooed between his eyebrows. It was a dying blue. The tattoo was complemented by a shaved head, eyes that forgot how to tell a story long ago, and a goatee that was being swallowed by wispy patches of beard. I thought facial art of this nature was reserved for mid-evening crime documentaries and Charley Manson. But, that didn’t change the fact that the man sitting across from me could land a role as a meth head in the next Vince Gilligan venture.

The seats had no business providing comfort for this man. They were the grey of a used car from the nineties, but their embroidery made them stand out. Random lines and paisleys of varying faded neon. They should be catching greasy cheese in a Chuck E Cheese, not harboring television criminals on a public bus.

I did my best not to focus on the man with the swastika tattoo, but it was a challenge. I could only switch between pretending to look at my phone and pretending to read the advertisements that lined the upper walls of the bus for so long. I did my best to care about boost mobile’s latest deal as I stole a prolonged look.

He shifted in his seat and I thought he noticed. Fuck it, everyone else is doing it. I looked around for reassurance.

A man with cracked hands and boots was on the phone:

“On my way now.”

“No he had errands — I’m on the bus.”

“You know “I’m trying.”

“Love you too.”

He sighed and hung up. Two seats down a guy with a scabbed face drank brown liquid out of a green soda bottle. He was loud and leaned in and out as he talked:

“Fucking refs fucked us last night.”

He swayed to the right and then to the left before he took notice to a woman wearing thick sunglasses two seats down:

“How you doing, sweetheart?”

She didn’t acknowledge him, and he scuffed like she should have. The bus brings out the worst in people. This red, rolling, metal hallway forced interactions between people who had no interest of interacting. Without reason for small talk, people are forced to judge, complain, and think about what decisions landed them an aisle seat.

Cause nobody chooses the bus in Huntington. It just happens. A few shitty decisions from a few shitty people and the seats fill. But, I was different. I wasn’t shitty. The only thing shitty was my parents. My best friend from high school got a car for graduation. I got a picture frame. A fucking picture frame.

My eyes returned to the man with the swastika tattoo and I wondered what he did to lose his freedom of transportation. Assault? Armed robbery? Hate crime? Definitely hate crime. He was probably sitting there deciding which racial slur would best apply to me. I couldn’t help but smirk. A light mom and a dark dad always confused trashy white people.

I didn’t have time to brace myself for the sudden stop; my backpack slammed on the walkway and gave something for everyone to look at. Who hires these fucking bus drivers? I retrieved my backpack with the grace of a drunken pickup line and didn’t wait for the old people to get off before I pushed my way down the aisle.

The station was tucked away between a main street and a river that probably had a couple tires in it. Rows of cement pillars that rose from a cement platform held a red shingled roof. There is a name for this structure but it always escapes me. Two monitors that predicted bus arrival times hung from the ceiling. There were two small glass rooms on opposite ends of the station. One contained a woman who sold tickets. She was an older woman with pink streaks dyed into her hair. She was here every day. Well, at least every Tuesday and Thursday. The other room contained benches and vending machines. There was almost no floor space in that room.

Navigating the transfer station difficult: dodging cigarette butts, mountain dew bottles, and spit stains; denying panhandlers hustling expired transfer tickets; deciding if the warmth of the indoor section was worth the smell — think Italian sub topped with rotted cod — of the indoor section. The rows of benches facing the buses were not an option. The exhaust was unbearable from there.

I scanned for the least occupied inner bench and took a seat. My buses didn’t run the same schedule. This guaranteed at least half an hour spent avoiding eye contact, judging those who seemed like lifelong bus riders, and feeling sorry for myself for being forced to ride the bus.

I gave meaning to the time by chain smoking. However, even smoking was an annoying process in public transfer world. I ran the risk of bumming half my pack every time I got it out. I managed to fish one out of my pea coat without being noticed. Now I could say it was my last one.

It was a cold day. So cold that it was hard to discern the smoke from my breath as I exhaled. My cigarette repeatedly stuck to my lips. I suffered through it — knowing I was only minutes away from an open buffet of look warm comfort food.

As I got up to ash my cigarette, I looked at the monitors. 6n: 6:30. Fuck. The 6n was the bus that took me back to my dorm. It was an hour late. While, my dorm was only a few miles away, walking there was torturous this time of year. What luck I was having. What an awful day.

“Yo, you gotta smoke?”

Ha.

“Sorry man, last one.”

He pressed his lips.

“Bullshit. You just got one form your jacket.”

I said nothing — just stared at the ground and waited for him to leave.

“I see you.”

No wonder you’re riding the bus — can’t even buy a pack of smokes.

I lit another cigarette and headed towards Main Street Huntington. Huntington met all the requirements of a city: corner stores with vague purposes, oversized banks, tacky bars; but, Huntington was missing something. It lacked the endless potential waiting around every corner. A mugging was the only potential around the corner.

I came across a Chinese place that caught my interest. Grand Dragon. A fine name. Contemplation halted my walk. Fried squid and an eggroll would really turn this day around. Dining halls free though. Dining hall sucks though. I’m kinda broke right now. But…. egg rolls though? My mind was settled; today, I would take my dinner at the Grand Dragon.

The door chimed to reveal a small room. It was accentuated with a glowing picture menu that highlighted various dishes. While the rest of the room was filled with mismatching tables, carry out menus, brochures, haunted park advertisements, and a Pepsi fridge containing Coke products, it was the picture menu that was the real draw. I searched for a recognizable rendition of fried squid, but it was not to be found. I settled for orange chicken.

I stepped forward and noticed the staff for the first time. There was not a person of Asian descent among them. Instead, the restaurant was lined with WASP looking gentleman. If it wasn’t for their various tattoos, I would have mistaken them for gym coaches from private schools. I was taken aback. For a second, I considered leaving. Could I really trust people like this to prepare my orange chicken?

My hunger quickly persuaded me to drop any prejudice and order. The cashier’s hair was shaven on the sides, leaving a blonde plateau on his head. He shoulders seemed to cause his neck discomfort. They robbed it of any breathing room.

“What’ll it be?”

I almost ordered my chicken and rice one syllable at a time — hard to kick old habits.

When the shock of the white cooking staff wore off, the process was no different than any other place I had been to: ten minute wait, brown bag, illegible scribbles for order distinction.

During my wait, decided that the walk back to my dorm would take too long to prolong dinner. I decided to dine in. When my order was up, I took my food and selected a window seat next to a Lucky Cat. I found this strange. I was almost sure Lucky Cats were a Japanese thing. I shook my head at myself. I really need to broaden my worldview.

I bit into my orange chicken. Damn. The temperature was perfect — hot enough to warm my whole body, but not hot enough to burn my mouth. It was crunchy without being rough. Firm but not chewy. Sweet, but also a little sour. It was delicious. And to think, I had almost left because the staff was white.

It took all of ten minutes to finish my meal. Afterwards, I shoved my hand into the brown bag to retrieve my fortune cookie. I found it, removed the wrapper, and snapped the cookie. The break of a fortune cookie is so satisfying — like the slight pop of pressure leaving the ear canal, or the crack of a first beer.

Aside from the auditory pleasures, I really enjoyed having my fortune told by a cookie. Maybe a little too much. I never showed them to anyone, only looked after my meal, and slip the good ones in my pocket. The cookie itself was tan and dark brown. Multi flavored perhaps? I never really thought about the taste anyway. I was too anxious for my fortune to be dealt to taste things.

“Have a Nice Day.”

Even the fortune cookie gods are fucking with me today.

Feeling unfortunate, I began to clean my table as the MSG slowly took hold. The door chimed as I was cleaning. We locked eyes as I looked up. The man with the swastika tattoo. He looked dangerous outside of the context of the bus.. I felt my back pocket when we passed. I expected my wallet to be missing. It wasn’t. I doubt he even noticed me.

Huntington was dead when I left the Grand Dragon. The overcast sky seemed highlighted the shortcomings of the city: graffiti popped of dull walls, every missing letter from every sign glowed brighter, and the grates collected even more fast food wrappers than normal. God, get me out of this city.

I continued down Main Street at a leisurely pace because I knew a decision was approaching. There were two side streets about a half block up the road: Colonial and King. Each had their advantages: King was quicker, but Colonial detoured around the worst slums. After some contemplation, I decided safety was more important than convenience. Plus, Colonial housed the upper-class of Huntington, and I enjoyed daydreaming about living in one of the mansions.

There was another reason I chose Colonial Street: the poverty line could literally be seen. There was no middle ground. The first block or so of the street was filled row after row of rotting window frames, collapsing porches, and missing shingles. The streets were lined with trash. However, the trash slowly dwindled with each step. Collapsing pouches replaced by grand, white pillars. Missing shingles turned into tower like arches, and there wasn’t a dent in any of the cars.

Every hedge in front of every house was perfectly maintained. They were shaped so well that they looked artificial. I could never decide if I liked them or not. Sure they looked nice, but nothing natural should look that perfect.

I kept a fast pace through the block of row homes, but I stopped at the last one. There was nothing about it that stood out from the others. It was the same color as all the rest: white. But, not a normal white. The white of the row homes looked like an undershirt that had been washed too many times. It wasn’t structured any differently: a box with two rotting pillars that barely supported the sagging overhang. However, I couldn’t take my eyes off the window. I was sure that you could see the sprawling colonial mansions if you looked out of it.

I imagined being on the other side of the window; how it must feel to look across the street at things you could never afford. I wondered how anyone could live in this constant reminder of inadequacy.

A child ran out of the door, down the stairs, and into the small patch of grass below. He was wearing what looked to be a set of red Cars pajamas, and he had a football in his hand. He laughed as he tossed the football in the air. He seemed happy, but I still felt sorry for him. He hardly had any space to play. It would be more fun in front of the colonial mansion.

I realized I had lingered too long, and crossed the invisible line that separated the haves from the have-nots. The houses really were stunning. My personal favorite was the last one on the corner before school. It was red brick stacked stories high. Every piece of landscape seemed to complement the navy window frames. One day..

I knew I should be moving along, but I couldn’t help but admire for a little longer. As I stared, a hole burst in the grey. Glowing streaks beamed down on the mansion, and I fished for my phone. The time caught my attention. 6:38. Thank god I didn’t wait. I’m still beating the bus home.

A black Mercedes pulled into the driveway. A woman stepped out of the vehicle dressed in navy and gold. Her hair a distinguished grey and her hands were distracted with a bag and a phone. Sunglasses blocked her eyes, but the shape of her mouth told the story. Misery? In a house like this? I waited but she didn’t enter her home. She headed towards me. The misery looked like anger up close.

“I’ll have you know that the police are on the way?”

I heard her, but her words didn’t make sense.

“Drift back down to King Street with the rest of the trash.”

All I could do was run. Trash? Really? She just didn’t understand. I’m different. Iim not shit. I didn’t get drunk on buses, or bum cigarettes, or wish I was younger, or play in small yards —

I was so preoccupied that I barely noticed the red blur as I stepped off the curb.