You get off

You Get Off by Liam Spencer

The not yours flies past creating
a burst that drives rain, dirt, and leaves
into your frigid body
while you stand waiting too long,
eager for the warmth and rhythm
of the bus that’ll take you
south from the lovely city
where you live spartanly

a young woman stands distant
typing at her phone, but
you notice that she keeps looking
to see if you’re looking
but you’re not interested
and she looks sad.

Another woman walks up, smiles, and
asks if the 43 has been through
“No, haven’t seen it.”
Then she wants to know where you’re going.
She has smiley eyes and a nice body,
Early thirties, near her prime,
But you’re in love and taken,
Remembering that just an hour ago
You held her and kissed her goodbye
And now you miss her warmth,
And long for tomorrow
When you’ll have
her close to you again.

The damn bus is late, and you wonder
if it missed you somehow
and you think of giving up
staying home. damn appointment anyway
and yet, finally, doors open in front of you
and heat meets your wind whipped face
as you climb aboard.

There are few people and all try
To pretend they’re not checking out
Others on the bus. You look around
And wonder what their stories are
What their lives are like
Their wants, passions, hopes
They all seem lost, seeking, hoping
someone will find them, validate them
somehow. They say it in their eyes
there’s a desperation, yet they’re all young,
and very attractive.
More stops and more get on
As some pile out.

The bus rolls on through downtown
And you watch attractive and well dressed
People with seemingly nice lives
Going about their day as you imagine
They always do.
And you notice everyone seems
Attractive and well dressed,
And you don’t really want to leave
This area of the city
To go south, where thing are much tougher
And far less beautiful,
But you must make the appointment.

Then it happens. It’s as if
there came a line that was crossed,
and all the attractive people scurry off the bus,
pour out on the streets,
and race north, as if they are afraid
of being somewhere they’re not supposed
to be. And you sit there and watch
as the beaten down, downtrodden, and ugly
begin piling on the bus.

Their faces say so much
But their eyes say it all.
They’re not looking for acceptance or validation.
That has been dead for a long time
In them. There is no searching for hope
Or even longing or desire for beauty.
They face a day of pain and humiliation
And the bus rolls on, further south

And you realize it’ll be another day and a half
Before you hold her in your arms
And you remember the sweetness of her kiss
The disappointment in her face that you
Had to go away early that morning.
You count yourself lucky to have her
And try to focus elsewhere.

More people pile on the crowded and noisy bus
You check the time and route, trying to figure out
Where the hell you’re going
And when this journey ends.

Then you realize it is just beginning, really.
This is your new chapter.
The bus rolls on, and your back
Is now killing you, especially when the bus slows.
Some people argue behind you
And people turn and stare unkindly
To let them know they’ve violated unwritten rules
The arguers hush themselves and mere
mumbles are heard. You move to the front of the bus
to grab a schedule and get away from arguments.
The driver looks at a crossword puzzle at every red light.
She’s immersed in this misery too.
And the bus winds its way through narrow streets
Lined with plain and dreary houses
Where people merely exist and hold on as best they can
For as long as they’re able.

And finally the bus gets on a highway
It won’t be long now
And those remaining on the bus
Grow quiet as if appeased by some
Sort of progress in their lives.

exiting the highway brings back
the restless conversations,
and those exiting the bus outnumber
those climbing on by four to one.
Where the hell is your stop?

On and on and on and on
It seems to never end.
And you wonder if you’ll end up
like these people,drained of all hope,
denied a life, condemned to misery
and you understand now
the attractive people from earlier,
seeking, longing, searching, hoping
and you miss the her that has your heart
and you swallow as your thoughts
turn to the rotten fuckers that hold your future,
your hopes, your very life
in their incompetent hands that shuffle
paperwork that their empty, yet ruthless minds
cannot possibly comprehend,
yet they have absolute power
over you, over everything.

And you gear up to face one of them
Who’ll later kill you while smiling.
Your chest tightens. Your heart thumps heavily.
Your stop is next.
Wind whips leaves and dirt and rain
In circles, as the world waits
to batter you because you’re down
the bus pulls up, the doors open.
You get off.

Isles

the isles are tough to navigate
for a lone person at night
as they’re clogged with families
loud children who rarely get out
exhausted men trying
to seem fine with it all
walking beside their unhappy women
who struggle to find
a mere once of happiness
as they pile their carts high
with cheap food and few goodies

you pass by knowing to not be annoyed
but to be thankful you’re not them
other things flood your mind anyway
you chose your items quickly
and make way to checkout
where lines are long
some push their way ahead
of those nice enough to allow
the louder and more aggressive
steal their way and impose themselves
makes them feel bigger I guess

a little girl behind you in line
picks up the divider you set
and swings it around
then smacks your eggs
her mother yacks on the cell
while piling food high on the conveyer
the checkout woman glares
someone steals your empty cart
while you pay your bill
theirs was too full

$50, half wine, gone
4 bags, including the eggs
Your head aches but
You remember you’re not them
The cashier takes a few moments away
to grab you a cart
while you bagged
such a person is rare indeed
and makes the night a bit better

At last

Nothing works in this life
I don’t either
Just keeping a vehicle
pointed in the right direction
brain dead or dying
noise from the radio
numb legs and spirit
looking forward to the wine
that sits waiting for me at home

the internet’s down again
the brakes grind with every stop
cable’s too costly
silence fills the expensive apartment
I wait for my movie to load
Ten hours or so
I won’t be interested by ten
I don’t work either I guess

Outside are stumbling of others
They don’t work either
Not really. They look to be shells
Fitting in, being all right
Being another brick
Hurling toward the end
Purposeless.
How can their lives be working?
They don’t live them

I sit and drink and think
I’m better this way
Than spending money
To be around those who don’t work
Even as they need breaks from their jobs
Grappling for superiority
Drinking, fighting, fucking
All mere tools to impose their rule

I don’t want to deal with them tonight
Or most nights. My wine kicks hard
And softly lands me to comfort
In front of the keyboard
Where I can let my writing free
And be free. Of them. Of superiority.
Of domination, or the struggle for it.
I can be the lover, not the fighter
Passion, swaying from good to bad
Yet alone and needing it all

The fan still runs out some of the outside noise
The glass full of cheap red
A lone cat outside the window
Commonality at last.

sunset

The purple you wear is like the sunset
That spotlights the gorgeous reality
Of earth and sun as they circle each other
Round and round, year after year

And we stand there admiring the colors
As the cold wind kicks up
Punishing us for daring to enjoy
The intensity of the sun

I look at you in your beauty
Your eyes alive even as you’re relaxed
Purple looks great on you
Contrasts your light complexion


Us standing there in a moment of beauty
Holding each other
Is like the sunset
A moment in time in going round and round

Enjoying the intensity of us
For the moment, before
Going away for a while
Just like the sun

And the cold wind of your departure
Will punish me for enjoying our intensity
Before your return
I await the morning of your presence.

blocks

I sat trying to uncork more than wine
I knew there was something I had to write
But it didn’t come easy for once
It was like waiting for ketchup
To drip out of the bottle
While your fries get cold

My fries are blocks of ice

malled

Older men rest their aches in recliners
At one end of the mall
Sprawled out and trying to resist looking foolish,
So they fight sleep by keeping an eye open,
Watching for hot young women passing by
There are plenty of them

Stroller speed mixes.
The larger the family, the slower
Single mothers rush by
As if repulsed by the other breeders
They’re different, somehow
Their baggage is less

Young couples walk hand in hand
Some slow, the girl fussy and unhappy
Some brisk, she’s happy so he’s happy
They pick their future stroller speed
And their lot in life
The mall’s what forms it for them

The very old line up at the buffet
And chuckle in common
At the futility of the younger people
They see the fate we all have at the end
How meaningless everything is
Except eating

Many attractive women wonder the malls
Not too young or too old
Their wiggles crying for attention
Even as they do not
They didn’t yet go the route of stroller races
A matter of time and a guy that’ll do

They look good and feel like shit
Each a pain in the ass
Settling for what guy they can accept
Good enough to get them pushing a stroller
And seeking a buzz from purchases
From the mall

I walk out, light a smoke
Stand alone, inhaling and exhaling
Wondering about life and purpose
Depressed, hopeless, enjoying
the cold, lifeless wind
that’s more comforting than the mall

I walk away, glad to be alone.

Bulls in the attic

I rolled over in the uncomfortable bed. My back was killing me. Ugh, another day of this shit. It was 10:30 in the morning, and my head hurt worse than usual. I rose and went for the only known cure for the morning blah; coffee. After the pot was set, I went to the bathroom and did my routine. I still felt like shit and faced a whole day of it. I wished I could have fast forwarded to after work, when I’d be home drinking wine and catching up on the days’ news while I waited for Zantha to come over.
There was an opportunity we were exploring. It was a 5,500 sq ft building with storefront, warehouse space, and offices that could be converted to a place to live. All that for much less than an apartment! I had doubts they’d lease it to me. They wanted a business plan and financials. I had neither. Zantha was very optimistic, though, and was coming over to help prepare paperwork. I would be so glad to see her!
After a third cup of coffee, I looked at my cell to see if anyone sent a text. It showed I had missed Zantha’s call. Being awake enough to converse, I eagerly called back, figuring she was bored at her store and wanted to talk. The day was starting well after all.
Her day was going far worse than mine! First, she ran out of coffee at her house, so had none in the morning. She remembered I had left coffee at her store the last time I was there, and so headed to the store early to take her cure for mornings. She arrived to a waterfall in the middle of her store. Upstairs plumbing of the old building had developed a leak. Forty pieces of clothing were soaked. She called the building owner and left a message, then called the maintence guy, who called the plumber. Then she rearranged the store to make room for the new waterfall.
What a day she was having! It was busy for a Tuesday, but few stayed long. The place was a mess. Sales were lost. A couple hours later, the building owner had come in to see the new store design she had just completed. He did not get his voice mail. He stood staring at the waterfall, then left to make more phone calls.
We talked for a good half hour. She was understandably upset, but there was a delighted wackiness to her voice. It was bad, but an adventure. I love that about her. She can take the shittery of life and make it an adventure, so long as it doesn’t take too long to be resolved. We talked and laughed, but had mixed in empathy and frustration in the conversation to keep each other sane. Soon, she went back to thinking of ways around the water and I left for work. The fun was over, for a while, anyway. She’d still be over that night, and more enjoyment was in store.
It turned out more bad luck was to follow. The plumber came, assessed the situation, and left to get pipes and so on. The waterfall continued. Customers came and left quickly. Time rolled on and on. Still no plumber. Hours later, a phone call solved the mystery; his truck broke down. He wouldn’t be back that day. The water for the building would be turned off after closing, but the water would continue to fall all night.
My route was fine, the usual shittery, but nothing too terrible. My back ached, I couldn’t feel my legs, and felt devaststed when filling the gas tank. The usual plight of the underemployed. I counted the hours until I’d have both wine and Zantha, and hope for opportunity. I daydreamt about it all; the storefront would hold Zantha’s second store, which meant more time with her. The apartment built in the office space. The warehouse converted to a playhouse and wine bar. The cheap rent and higher income. Being a business owner again. The return of my old self; ambitious, optimistic, driven, hopeful, not just a low paid employee with dim prospects who depended on coffee and wine to make it through the day.
Toward evening, Zantha sent a text explaining that she had a monster headache and was going to lay down for a while. I knew what that meant; no Zantha tonight. Gone was the adventure she had in her voice earlier. It had taken too long. I couldn’t blame her. What shit to have happen! She lost money from sales, had 40 pieces damaged, and nothing had been resolved. Small business owners don’t have much margin of losing before it becomes a huge deal, and have to strike while sales are available. She had taken a hell of a hit. I found myself wishing I could give a long massage and clear the way for her to sleep sound.
That evening we spoke by phone again, and she told me all about it. Nothing was done about the waterfall all day, and she wondered about the next day. I listened and tried to support her. No help could do anything but ease the stress slightly. It was numbers and frustrations, all external to us. Conditions can be so ruthless. I offered to help at the store in the morning. She accepted. We got off the phone after an hour or so. I had a few more glasses of wine, tried to write poetry, and went to sleep.
The next morning, I woke with a severe backache that overshadowed my aching head. Coffee brewed, bathroom routine done, and ached stretching out of the way, coffee brought focus. It was 8:30. Coffee helped me remember why I was up so early; Zantha. I chugged two more cups while smoking, filled my thermos, and was out the door.
Zantha’s store was rearranged to cater to the demanding water, but she managed to make it look alright. There was a big tub in the middle of the store, filled with last night’s water. Zantha and I slid the tub out to the parking lot and dumped it. We put it back with little water on the floor, and I worked on the carpet with a shopvac. Zantha went about the store trying to make it look as good as possible. It was early, so few people came by anyway.
Shortly, two plumbers came in, needing to get to the attic to work on the pipes. Zantha showed them where to go. They hardly looked like professional plumbers. They looked more like rural farmers, with overalls and dumbed down facial expressions. They had rural, almost southern accents. Thre was a certain drawl to the speaking. I had known guys like that; unruly, clumbsy good old boys who lacked style, consideration, or common sense. Bulls in china shops. I worried for Zantha. Don’t get me wrong. I was and am a dog, but I can be a well behaved dog. They’re bulls. Bulls just destroy.
Having cleaned up as well as could be done, I could have left. There was nothing more I could have done. I stayed around for Zantha, as I worried about the farmer/plumber bulls that were in her attic. Customers were coming in. Zantha flowed magically through the store helping them pick the right looks, the right clothes, the right everything. The bulls in the attic thumped and stuffled voices could be heard, much like Charlie Brown’s teacher. I could see the collision course; the cultured, upscale customers in the store and the bulls in the attic meeting head to head. The bulls had nothing to lose. The customers would leave, offended. The only one who could lose was Zantha. I pondered calling off work to head off the bulls. I was the bullfighter of a woman’s clothing store.
The bulls came and went with pipes and tools, and thumped around in the attic and clanged at their truck. As late morning arrived, more ladies tried things on, and the dressing rooms were rather busy. Many tuned out the waterfall and got in the zone of shopping. Things were going as well as could be.
With everything going on, there was one thing neither I nor Zantha had thought of. While the bulls sounded muffled from the sales floor, they could be heard perfectly from the dressing rooms. It wasn’t an issue early, as few customers ventured in the store, and few had gone into the dressing rooms. Now those rooms were busy.
A woman who had been in the zone for quite a while headed for the dressing room with a pricey sexy outfit . She was an older lady, probably in her early fifties, and conservatively dressed. She walked past sporting a devilish grin and a bright glow about her. It was clear that just the thought of owning such an outfit was making her day. Knowing nothing about womens’ fashion, and not caring about anything except taking clothes off, I was amazed at the effect clothes can have on a person. It gave me an even greater admiration of Zantha and her passions.
The lady was in there quite a while. Then it happened. The bulls in the attic had been coming toward the stairway after taking off the leaking pipes. That put them close to the dressing room and the cash register where Zantha and I were standing.
We over heard one bull say to the other, “Now THEMS some old pipes!”
There were thumps in the dressing room. Shortly, the older lady darted from the dressing room. Her clothes were unkempt, and her shoes barely on. She darted past, redfaced and furious, emabarrassed and hurt. Zantha held her head low, her hands over her face, trying to suppress anger. I held her close and waited for bulls to climb down the ladder. I knew bulls would respond to a bullfighter better than to a classy woman like Zantha, so I offered to talk with them. She went to the other customers. I went to fight the bulls.
“Hey guys, can I speak with you for a moment?”
They glared harsh. Bulls on the ready. “What you want?”
“she has customers here. They can hear you in the dressing room. A lady heard you about old pipes and thought you meant her.”
Laughter erupted. Make a bull laugh, and he’ll do what you want.
“It sounds funny, but it cost Zantha a sale of $250. Would you laugh if you lost $250 in 3 seconds?”
There was no laughing.
“Just please watch what you say, and try to stay away from the dressing room area. You might want to apologize to Zantha too. She’s losing a lot of money with all this.”
The bulls sneared a bit, then went to the truck. Zantha was glowing about another sale. My God, what a woman! What talent, smarts, skill! She rebounds from everything with a glow, with class, with smarts, with beauty. I watched her a while in admiration, doing her thing, smiling and glowing. A Godsend. A miracle. Everything would be just fine with her, despite it all. Waterfalls, disasters, lack of coffee. She’ll always be amazing.
It was time for me to go to work. Back to realities of traffic, killer back aches, headaches, idiot customers, incompetent managers, low pay, dim prospects, hopelessness, and low wages. At least Zantha would be over that night. There was much to look forward to, and much to be happy about. I climbed in my little clown car. I had been the bullfighter, now I was the clown.
The mindless, soulless clown car pulled out of the parking lot, and drove away from the store. The brakes ground at every stop. Sports talk came from the radio. Rain was swept away by wipers. There was no feeling in the legs that operated the pedals. An aching back leaning against the seat. A numbed spirit paired with an empty mind went on autopilot to get the day over with. Cigarette smoke rolled out of the window. A new day was at hand.