NaNoWriMo - Day 3 (11/03/2005)
Eric
I go for another sip of coffee, forgetting that the extra-large cup in my hands is already empty. I’m so tired, both literally and figuratively. Exhausted literally from another night out at the bar with the boys, trying to pick up girls who don’t even know we exist—and who would probably call the cops if they did—and figuratively tired of all this shit. The world has gone to hell in a handcart, and nobody seems to notice … or give a shit.
The guy getting on the bus at the Rottman stop is soaked from the rain through and through and he doesn’t even have an umbrella. It’s like he didn’t even notice that it’s raining outside. I’ll never understand some people’s kids. He’s literally dripping on everyone as he walks down the aisle, and he’s not even paying attention to where he’s going. He’s look at some kid on the sidewalk, sitting on his bike. Must be his kid.
The kid gives a quick wave and a grin and mounts up on the bike and rides off in the rain. He’s not wearing a rain slicker or anything else either. Incompetent parents. It’s no wonder the world is so shitty.
I think about my parents. They’re both dead now, killed in a car accident. My father was drinking and driving … again. At least he didn’t hit another car. Ran straight into a concrete footing down under the Riverside Bridge. The cops said that they died instantly, that they didn’t feel a thing. But I went down there, after they’d cleared the scene and finished their investigation. Leading away from the spot where the car hit the footing, on what I can only assume was the passenger side, was this … stain. It was like whoever made that stain was trying to pull them self along, causing a smear on the pavement. It’s like someone was trying to get away from the burning wreck.
The wet dad is standing right next to my seat, near the back of the bus. The bus is full, but it ain’t that full—he better not sit here.
“Is this seat taken?” Shit.
“Nah, go ahead,” I mutter, readjusting in my own seat so that he’s got room for his briefcase and shoulder-bag. He sits down with a ‘squish’ and I can just friggin tell that he’s gonna drip all over me and I’m gonna get to work looking like I goddamn pissed myself.
“Coffee,” he says, nodding at my cup. I shake it to indicate the empty state it’s in. He reaches down between his legs and unzips the big shoulder bag he brought on with him. I glance down and can see a laptop computer, a change of clothes and some miscellaneous stuff that I can’t identify with my quick glance. He reaches around inside for a minute, looking back up at me and giving a small grin, before returning his attention to his feet.
“Here we go.” He pulls out a large thermos and unscrews the cap. I can smell hot, fresh coffee wafting out. “Want a refill?” he asks, holding out the thermos. Maybe this guy ain’t so bad after all.
“Sure, thanks.” I take the top off my Starbucks cup and hold it out for him to pour. “No need to fill it all the way,” I tell him, smiling for the first time this morning. “As you can see, I’ve already had quite a large hit this morning.” He smiles back and fills my cup about half-way. His thermos is one of those ones where the cap turns into a cup, which he uses to pour his own shot of morning courage. I’ve never understood those thermos cap/cups. When you’re finished, and you put it back on, doesn’t it leak all over the place? I guess it’s better than spending $3 every morning.
He takes a sip and gives a sigh. I know how he feels and take a swig of my own.
“You don’t normally take this bus,” I say. “At least not around this time of day.”
“Nope. Gotta go in to work a little early today. Big meeting, lots of preparation. You know.”
I have no clue, but I’m not about to let him know that. “Yea.”
“What about you? This your normal time?”
“Yep.”
“Off to work then? Or just coming home? I see lots of people on my regular ride who are just coming off the night shift.”
“Jus’ heading in.” I take another swig of coffee. Not as good as Starbucks, but not bad. Not bad at all. “I work on the paint line at Hoffman’s, the auto parts plant. You know the one?”
“Yea, that’s just over on …”
“Hoffman,” I finish for him, laughing. “They named the street after the plant years ago, when it was one of the only businesses in that part of town that was actually making any money.
“Right.” He grins. This guy is alright and I’m feeling a little badly about making fun of him earlier.
“I’m Eric,” I tell him.
“Simon. Good to meet you Eric.” We shake.
“You too. Thanks for the coffee, I really needed it.”
“No worries. So what do you do, working on the paint line at Hoffman’s?”
“We take the finished parts, in batches, hang them on a line and send them through a power washing unit. You know, to get off all the grease. Then they come around and either go through an automatic paint unit—powder paint—or they’re spray-painted by hand. It all depends on the part. Then they go through the oven and we take ‘em off the line, inspect them, and prep them for shipment to the auto plant. We mostly make gas tank fittings for trucks.”
“Sounds like a decent job.”
I roll my eyes. If he only knew. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “It all depends on your version of ‘decent’ I guess. It can get pretty monotonous, hanging the same parts on the same line, day after day.” I don’t tell him we have to go out at lunch and smoke some grass just to be able to make it through the afternoon. It’s that boring.
“I bet it pays okay, though, doesn’t it? I always thought that union jobs were pretty high-paying, good job security, all that.”
“You watch the news and read the paper too much,” I tell him in all honesty. “We’re not a union plant, so we don’t get the job security. If we refuse overtime more than twice in a quarter, they’ll can us so fast. It’s pretty crazy actually.”
“That’s not legal, is it?”
“Legal is what you can get away with. Listen,” I say, reaching up and pulling the rope to tell the driver to pull over at the next bus stop, “thanks a lot for the extra shot of coffee. I really needed it this morning. This is my stop coming up.”
“No problem, Eric. It was good chatting with you.”
I stand up and squeeze past him into the aisle. We’re getting close to the stop. “Yea, you too. Simon, right?”
“Yep.”
“Alright, listen. Have a good one man. Maybe I’ll see you around again sometime. I owe you a coffee.”
“Don’t worry about,” he says, like he thinks I actually meant it literally. “Maybe we’ll run into each other tomorrow? I think I’ll be heading to work early all this week.”
“Cool, man. Take it easy.” The bus pulls up to the stop and the door opens. I step out into the rain. I really don’t want to go to work today, but that extra shot of coffee might actually get me through the first hour without killing myself … or anyone else.
Sara
I fumble with the change for the bus, spilling some of it down the side by the driver’s feet. He sighs, which makes me want to cry even harder. I can’t see a thing.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’ll get it later.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, sure that I’m the first woman in the world to get on a bus after breaking up with their boyfriend, and that he’s looking at me thinking I’m some kind of crazy person, with no place to go. Which is true, at least in part.
I walk down the aisle, looking for a place to sit but every seat has at least one person sitting in it. I just want to be alone. I’m almost at the back of the bus, and people are staring at me. They must think I’m crazy too. I see an empty seat on the right and fall into it, not looking at the older guy I’m sitting next to. The seat is warm. The guy who got off as I was getting on must have been sitting here.
“Good morning.” It’s the guy beside me. “Are you okay?”
I glance at him sideways and nod. He seems like an okay guy … not a freak or anything like that. He’s dressed nice and looks like he’s on his way to work. ‘Fine, thanks.” I really don’t feel like talking, but I have a feeling this guy does.
“Do you want some fresh coffee?” he asks, holding out the thermos in his hand. “I’ve already had some and you look like you’ve been standing in the rain—you could probably use it more than I can right now.”
It’s one of the sweetest things that anyone has ever said to me, and I wonder why I can’t meet a man who cares so much about people, who actually notices people and wants to help them out. I start to cry again.
“Hey, hey,” he says softly. I didn’t mean to upset you. “I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you prefer.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay,” I sob. “Actually … it’s not okay. Nothing is okay anymore. Fuck.” Tears continue to stream down my face and I try to cover them with my hands. I can hear the coffee as he pours it. It smells fresh. Looking through tears and splayed fingers I can see him holding out the cup for me. It’s one of those lid/cups my mom used to give me when I was a kid. She used to fill it with chicken soup broth on rainy days, especially if I was starting to get a cold. I could sip on that stuff all day, and by the end of school I wouldn’t feel sick any more.
I take the cup from his hands and have a sip. “That’s good coffee.”
“Nothing but the best for my random bus mates,” he says, smiling. The last guy to sit with me enjoyed some too.
“Have you had any?”
“I’ve had a bit. Enough, for sure. Besides, like I said, it looked like you need it more than I do. Are you okay? I mean … I know you said ‘It’s not okay,’ but are you okay? Are you going to be all right?”
Taking a huge breath and letting it out in a long, slow sigh, I take a good look at him for the first time. He’s a good-looking guy, I’d say about five to ten years older than I am. He’s going a little bald and he’s not in the greatest shape, from the look of him, but he’s got a nice face. A gentle face.
“Thank you,” I tell him, looking him right in the eyes. “I am going to be okay, eventually. I know that. It’s just that sometimes its hard to remember, especially when the world, or at least my world, seems to be falling down around me.”
Today's word count: 1956
Cumulative word count: 5608
I go for another sip of coffee, forgetting that the extra-large cup in my hands is already empty. I’m so tired, both literally and figuratively. Exhausted literally from another night out at the bar with the boys, trying to pick up girls who don’t even know we exist—and who would probably call the cops if they did—and figuratively tired of all this shit. The world has gone to hell in a handcart, and nobody seems to notice … or give a shit.
The guy getting on the bus at the Rottman stop is soaked from the rain through and through and he doesn’t even have an umbrella. It’s like he didn’t even notice that it’s raining outside. I’ll never understand some people’s kids. He’s literally dripping on everyone as he walks down the aisle, and he’s not even paying attention to where he’s going. He’s look at some kid on the sidewalk, sitting on his bike. Must be his kid.
The kid gives a quick wave and a grin and mounts up on the bike and rides off in the rain. He’s not wearing a rain slicker or anything else either. Incompetent parents. It’s no wonder the world is so shitty.
I think about my parents. They’re both dead now, killed in a car accident. My father was drinking and driving … again. At least he didn’t hit another car. Ran straight into a concrete footing down under the Riverside Bridge. The cops said that they died instantly, that they didn’t feel a thing. But I went down there, after they’d cleared the scene and finished their investigation. Leading away from the spot where the car hit the footing, on what I can only assume was the passenger side, was this … stain. It was like whoever made that stain was trying to pull them self along, causing a smear on the pavement. It’s like someone was trying to get away from the burning wreck.
The wet dad is standing right next to my seat, near the back of the bus. The bus is full, but it ain’t that full—he better not sit here.
“Is this seat taken?” Shit.
“Nah, go ahead,” I mutter, readjusting in my own seat so that he’s got room for his briefcase and shoulder-bag. He sits down with a ‘squish’ and I can just friggin tell that he’s gonna drip all over me and I’m gonna get to work looking like I goddamn pissed myself.
“Coffee,” he says, nodding at my cup. I shake it to indicate the empty state it’s in. He reaches down between his legs and unzips the big shoulder bag he brought on with him. I glance down and can see a laptop computer, a change of clothes and some miscellaneous stuff that I can’t identify with my quick glance. He reaches around inside for a minute, looking back up at me and giving a small grin, before returning his attention to his feet.
“Here we go.” He pulls out a large thermos and unscrews the cap. I can smell hot, fresh coffee wafting out. “Want a refill?” he asks, holding out the thermos. Maybe this guy ain’t so bad after all.
“Sure, thanks.” I take the top off my Starbucks cup and hold it out for him to pour. “No need to fill it all the way,” I tell him, smiling for the first time this morning. “As you can see, I’ve already had quite a large hit this morning.” He smiles back and fills my cup about half-way. His thermos is one of those ones where the cap turns into a cup, which he uses to pour his own shot of morning courage. I’ve never understood those thermos cap/cups. When you’re finished, and you put it back on, doesn’t it leak all over the place? I guess it’s better than spending $3 every morning.
He takes a sip and gives a sigh. I know how he feels and take a swig of my own.
“You don’t normally take this bus,” I say. “At least not around this time of day.”
“Nope. Gotta go in to work a little early today. Big meeting, lots of preparation. You know.”
I have no clue, but I’m not about to let him know that. “Yea.”
“What about you? This your normal time?”
“Yep.”
“Off to work then? Or just coming home? I see lots of people on my regular ride who are just coming off the night shift.”
“Jus’ heading in.” I take another swig of coffee. Not as good as Starbucks, but not bad. Not bad at all. “I work on the paint line at Hoffman’s, the auto parts plant. You know the one?”
“Yea, that’s just over on …”
“Hoffman,” I finish for him, laughing. “They named the street after the plant years ago, when it was one of the only businesses in that part of town that was actually making any money.
“Right.” He grins. This guy is alright and I’m feeling a little badly about making fun of him earlier.
“I’m Eric,” I tell him.
“Simon. Good to meet you Eric.” We shake.
“You too. Thanks for the coffee, I really needed it.”
“No worries. So what do you do, working on the paint line at Hoffman’s?”
“We take the finished parts, in batches, hang them on a line and send them through a power washing unit. You know, to get off all the grease. Then they come around and either go through an automatic paint unit—powder paint—or they’re spray-painted by hand. It all depends on the part. Then they go through the oven and we take ‘em off the line, inspect them, and prep them for shipment to the auto plant. We mostly make gas tank fittings for trucks.”
“Sounds like a decent job.”
I roll my eyes. If he only knew. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “It all depends on your version of ‘decent’ I guess. It can get pretty monotonous, hanging the same parts on the same line, day after day.” I don’t tell him we have to go out at lunch and smoke some grass just to be able to make it through the afternoon. It’s that boring.
“I bet it pays okay, though, doesn’t it? I always thought that union jobs were pretty high-paying, good job security, all that.”
“You watch the news and read the paper too much,” I tell him in all honesty. “We’re not a union plant, so we don’t get the job security. If we refuse overtime more than twice in a quarter, they’ll can us so fast. It’s pretty crazy actually.”
“That’s not legal, is it?”
“Legal is what you can get away with. Listen,” I say, reaching up and pulling the rope to tell the driver to pull over at the next bus stop, “thanks a lot for the extra shot of coffee. I really needed it this morning. This is my stop coming up.”
“No problem, Eric. It was good chatting with you.”
I stand up and squeeze past him into the aisle. We’re getting close to the stop. “Yea, you too. Simon, right?”
“Yep.”
“Alright, listen. Have a good one man. Maybe I’ll see you around again sometime. I owe you a coffee.”
“Don’t worry about,” he says, like he thinks I actually meant it literally. “Maybe we’ll run into each other tomorrow? I think I’ll be heading to work early all this week.”
“Cool, man. Take it easy.” The bus pulls up to the stop and the door opens. I step out into the rain. I really don’t want to go to work today, but that extra shot of coffee might actually get me through the first hour without killing myself … or anyone else.
Sara
I fumble with the change for the bus, spilling some of it down the side by the driver’s feet. He sighs, which makes me want to cry even harder. I can’t see a thing.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’ll get it later.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, sure that I’m the first woman in the world to get on a bus after breaking up with their boyfriend, and that he’s looking at me thinking I’m some kind of crazy person, with no place to go. Which is true, at least in part.
I walk down the aisle, looking for a place to sit but every seat has at least one person sitting in it. I just want to be alone. I’m almost at the back of the bus, and people are staring at me. They must think I’m crazy too. I see an empty seat on the right and fall into it, not looking at the older guy I’m sitting next to. The seat is warm. The guy who got off as I was getting on must have been sitting here.
“Good morning.” It’s the guy beside me. “Are you okay?”
I glance at him sideways and nod. He seems like an okay guy … not a freak or anything like that. He’s dressed nice and looks like he’s on his way to work. ‘Fine, thanks.” I really don’t feel like talking, but I have a feeling this guy does.
“Do you want some fresh coffee?” he asks, holding out the thermos in his hand. “I’ve already had some and you look like you’ve been standing in the rain—you could probably use it more than I can right now.”
It’s one of the sweetest things that anyone has ever said to me, and I wonder why I can’t meet a man who cares so much about people, who actually notices people and wants to help them out. I start to cry again.
“Hey, hey,” he says softly. I didn’t mean to upset you. “I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you prefer.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay,” I sob. “Actually … it’s not okay. Nothing is okay anymore. Fuck.” Tears continue to stream down my face and I try to cover them with my hands. I can hear the coffee as he pours it. It smells fresh. Looking through tears and splayed fingers I can see him holding out the cup for me. It’s one of those lid/cups my mom used to give me when I was a kid. She used to fill it with chicken soup broth on rainy days, especially if I was starting to get a cold. I could sip on that stuff all day, and by the end of school I wouldn’t feel sick any more.
I take the cup from his hands and have a sip. “That’s good coffee.”
“Nothing but the best for my random bus mates,” he says, smiling. The last guy to sit with me enjoyed some too.
“Have you had any?”
“I’ve had a bit. Enough, for sure. Besides, like I said, it looked like you need it more than I do. Are you okay? I mean … I know you said ‘It’s not okay,’ but are you okay? Are you going to be all right?”
Taking a huge breath and letting it out in a long, slow sigh, I take a good look at him for the first time. He’s a good-looking guy, I’d say about five to ten years older than I am. He’s going a little bald and he’s not in the greatest shape, from the look of him, but he’s got a nice face. A gentle face.
“Thank you,” I tell him, looking him right in the eyes. “I am going to be okay, eventually. I know that. It’s just that sometimes its hard to remember, especially when the world, or at least my world, seems to be falling down around me.”
Today's word count: 1956
Cumulative word count: 5608
posted by Paul Keetch at 8:44 AM
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