Bus Stop Diaries #3: THAT DONK
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Bus Stop Diaries, Humor, Short Stories
Rehearsing For Work On the Subway
I singlehandedly turned my local Wal-Mart into a 24 hour night club. I’d buy toiletries; strike up conversation with curvy women in the baby care aisle and make lots of retail friends, especially with the ever so kind elderly greeters.
But I no longer live across the street from my favorite corporate oppressors. So I’ve taken the party elsewhere. A place to go when I’m having a good, El Debarge like hair day and don’t want a scooter helmet ruining my freshly conditioned (but not texturized!) curls: THE BUS STOP.
I was fresh off a hard day of work. Hard meaning I had to constantly minimize my internet window when The Man came into my office. I saw her two blocks ahead, walking toward the bus stop. Recognizing a smallish waist and shapely hips I used my superhuman optic nerve to zoom in for a closer look. Damn, she has a donk. A pulsing alarm rang in my visual cortex: “Emergency Ass Alert. Two Blocks North. Please Proceed Quickly.”
I did my cool man’s run towards my target. You know; the jog-run hybrid people use when they have somewhere to go but don’t want coins and Chick-O-Sticks falling out their pockets. I reached her just as the number six bus is leaving the stop. Damn, we were both stranded for the next 30-40 minutes.
I said to her, “How come you didn’t run and hold the bus for me?” She laughed, and replied, “That’s embarrassing to be running for a bus.” We then talked of the typical things people discuss at a bus stop, mainly bus routes and destinations. I explained to her that there’s a trolley stop just down the street that could get her home quicker. Well, down the street was actually a 1.5 mile walk. But I’m six feet tall, and five of those six feet consist of often-ashy legs. In other words, if she could hang with my stride we’d be there in no time.
We started our journey and I asked her “Are you getting off work, school or something?” Her answer was vague, “Neither.” As she changed the subject I noticed her right hand. The skin between her thumb and index finger was tatted with an amateurish three dot symbol. Looked like some gang shit. Well that’s not so bad. I actually found it kind of exciting. Plus, maybe she wouldn’t mind if I called her “Gangsta Bitch” while we play spades and drink top-shelf malt liquor.
Scooter Diaries: Don’t Be Throwin’ Stuff At Baby D!
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Bus Stop Diaries, Humor, Short Stories
Yep, I ride a scooter. And you want to call me “Euro-negro” for cruising by while wearing slim-fit slacks and a cardigan made of the finest cloned lamb’s wool only available through a top-secret facility in South Korea, and Urban Outfitters. You really want to ridicule me for getting 80 miles per gallon and spending just $4 a week on gas? Worst of all, you speak ill of me as I lean forward like Usain Bolt on the starting block and struggle to maintain a steady speed while riding up a steep hill. Damn man; let me tell you about my scooter…
First things first: Women. Women love the scoot. Although they laugh at me as I drive pass, it is a laugh of “Damn, who’s that guy weaving through traffic and playing by his own rules. Look at how his bony hand twists the throttle. It’s like he’s saying…fuck a Hummer.”
For example, I once pulled over on a side street to use my cell phone when I heard the erotic giggle of young women sitting in an open garage. I looked over and stared at them through my fake designer shades from Marshall’s. One of the young women said “What is that?” I then rode all up in their garage to give them a closer look. As I was explaining a giant SUV came up the driveway and began beeping its horn. I turned around and noticed a middle-age female driver was waving me aside. I asked the young women “How old are y’all?” Shouts of “I’m 16! I’m 17!” echoed in the garage. I scooted away, completely unscathed of potential statutory rape charges.
And this other time I was leaving my apartment building, about to head to the store and stuff three days of groceries into my tiny scooter trunk. I received a call from a friend who was in the neighborhood. She said “I’m off early. Is it cool if I stop by and say hi.” I replied, “Yeah. I’m about to grab some food and cook. And since you have a pretty smile, pleasant disposition, intelligence AND a big ass, you’re more than welcome to come over.” (Well, I didn’t say the big ass thing, but I sho’ nuff thought it.)
She came over, hopped on the back and received the most exciting ride of her life. Although the only physical contact came courtesy of our helmets banging it was a joyful experience nevertheless. Well maybe a bit more joyful for me since I didn’t hear back from her for a few days.
Bus Stop Diaries #1
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Bus Stop Diaries, Humor, Short Stories
The trolley doors open and the passengers exit. Unlike air travel this is not referred to as deplaning, or even worse, de-trolleying. Why? Because that’s just plain stupid.
I’m first in the makeshift line and move closer to board as the last passenger prepares to leave. She gets to the final step and pauses. She cocks her head forward as if she’s searching for something between the rails. A dirty, bluish liquid explodes out of her month. Instinctively I hop back and bump the hurried teenager who had no business all up on my ass anyway.
The bile splashes on the yellow concrete of the “no standing” zone. She looks at me and says “That was rude, wasn’t it.”
I think “Of course, woman.” But I remain silent. The freak angel on my left should says, “Cool man! You can’t go wrong with a chick that’s down to display her bodily fluids. Get her number!” The sane angel on my right shoulder says “That’s a nasty bitch. Leave her alone”
I move closer and prepare to step on board. She moves back and walks to her seat, her hips clicking from side-to-side. Her ass has squeezed every last wear out of the faded blue jeans. Freak Angel might be right.
I grab an empty seat and think to text one my friends who always text back. I like people like that. Shit, left my phone on the couch.
I relax into the seat, which is built to dissuade sleeping. I stretch my long legs into the aisle and look at the faces abroad: a well-dressed couple that refuses to grab a seat, despite the numbers of spaces available; an older Asian with a deformed upper palate that causes her jagged mouth to protrude, the woman with the sexy body fluids who is now holding a baby; and a fat, freckled teenage boy whose shy demeanor makes him look like fresh meat for a bully—well this is the 2010, I suppose he could just shoot the whole damn school up if it came to that.
Only 10 minutes later my stop has arrived. I get off and walk a half mile to the “natural” grocery store. I’m crossing the street when a bar begins beeping frantically. Startled, I look to my right and see an old friend at the stoplight. I probably haven’t seen him in about five to six years. Cool, he’ll say what’s up and ask if I need a ride. Nope, this muthafucka actually yells “What’s up!” and proceeds to drive away. The voice of Alonzo Harris, Denzel’s character in Training Day pops in my head. He says “You bitch made nigga.” I agree.
.