The Bus Stop

Losing my car in the name of losing some debt was a bittersweet pill. Once I swallowed, this became my morning: The alarm clock woke me precisely three and a half hours after I finally fell asleep; a quick grooming; then out the door, across the street and down one block to Santa Monica Boulevard, where I boarded ’s Number 4 for the short trip east to Wilshire and a transfer to the Number 320 Express. Dodging the Dodges and Toyotas that sped harried assistants to Century City parking garages (you have no idea how fast you drive in L.A. till you try walking in L.A.), I ran for my life across the intersection toward the front of the Beverly Hilton, where I awaited my connection and cast a fire hydrant-shaped dent in my butt. Blessedly, the process didn’t require a whole lot of thought. My brain capacity was never all that impressive early in the morning and at that point of life I was at an all-time low. Not having to think about driving, or much else for that matter, lulled me into an even more dull mental state.

You know, as a race of auto consumers, we’re not a very imaginative people. How many hunter green SUVs or metallic silver sedans do we need? And what’s with all the white cars in So Cal? Are the car wash barons in cahoots with the auto manufacturers? The sea of muted tones passing by glazed my brain like an Easter ham. Harkening back to the family station wagon vacations of my youth, I invented mind games to weed myself from the garden of boredom that had sprouted over me watching the same cars pass day after day. My favorite was called "Guess If She's Wearing Pants Or A Skirt."

Until they were upon me, I could see only the top half of the women in the on-coming traffic. From the look of their hair and makeup, I would guess what they were wearing below the waist. Once they reached me, I could see all the way into their car and determine if I was correct. It was a poor man's scratch-off lotto ticket, to be sure, but it was all I had. I batted about .800 for my seven-month carless season.

It was a crapshoot as to exactly where my commuting friends would come to rest at the red light. I was struck by the randomness of it. When I wasn't guessing what my girls were covering their legs with, I would try to make some order of who stopped where. Some would stop just a little too close to the sidewalk, improving my view; others would leave a little too much room between themselves and the car ahead of them, preventing me from getting too close a look. Some days, regardless of flavor, they would hit a green light and just give me a glance as they passed. Secretly, they were playing along and knew they were spoiling my average.

A few weeks into the game I developed peripheral eye contact relationships with a number of the regulars. One memorable customer was a Eurasian Beauty with long, silky black hair who rode in a gunmetal gray Jaguar (that’s their name for metallic silver) while her young professional husband piloted the car down Wilshire.

It was a sunny morning and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. The Jag hit the red light and stopped dead in front of me. Fire hydrant drilling my ass, I slyly peered over my Ray-bans to get a better look at my Eurasian beauty. Taking utmost care not to move my head and give myself away, my gaze gently rolled to the right and landed smack dab in hers. We were both totally busted. It should have been one of those sly glances that go past long before a male can possibly notice, but luck was a lady that day. My eyes swept across her face. Her lips were moving, silent and independent of the moment we shared. Her words went to her husband, but her eyes belonged to me. She never missed a beat. And there sat hubby, babbling on about who cares what, oblivious to his wife's little distraction.

This went on every day after that. The Jag approaches -- the happy couple discussing dinner, new Berbers for the condo, or whatever. Ever so briefly, as hubby babbles on, the wife and I share our moment. These moments started to make life worth living. That’s how shitty my life was. (Good thing I had decided to put thoughts involving my wiener on the back burner, no?)

My mind reeled. She had to be at least a tad bored with hubby. They've been together what, five years, the last two married? Both were career-absorbed, he more so than she. The sack time ain't what it used to be. And now the drive to the office is getting old. Then one day, out of the corner of her eye appears a definitely different looking guy resting his rear end on a fire hydrant outside the Beverly Hilton. She takes in a brief glance of the lean stranger in the tight jeans. (Since my separation I had been spending a lot of time at the gym.) That instant glance gives way to desire. The attraction is growing.

The half-second that she diverts her eyes up to the sidewalk is frozen in time. She gives me the once over and I give her the twice over. We feel it, we want it, but how, where?

Her mind drifts thought by thought with mine. We cross paths on a deserted beach under a star-filled sky. Our eyes meet. She can't move. I hold her tight in my arms. Our mouths lock in a fiery, passionate kiss. My fingertips brush against her warm skin lighter than a sea breeze, sending a chill across her back. Her knees give way and we fall to the sand. Without a word, we make sweet love; the music of the rolling waves our soundtrack. I am the most tenderly violent and generously selfish lover she's known. She feels a tingling sensation deep within her smolder into a burning, raging fire. Her body starts to quiver. Her breathing becomes halted and sporadic. She clutches her own breast. She digs her fingers into my back. And just as she's teetering helplessly over the edge...

Like a wave crashing over her, she thinks, “I’m fantasizing about a guy standing at a bus stop. What exactly does that mean in the fiscal scheme of things?” The aroma of the rich leather interior in the Jag sneaks into her senses and gently tugs her back to reality. She feels the smooth silk of her Donna Karan, the weight of the two-and-a-half karats on her left hand. She glances over at hubby, still oblivious to his wife's invasion on Fantasy Island. Her attention swings momentarily back to the intriguing, albeit penniless, stranger on the sidewalk. Then she turns to her husband and barely breathes out “I love you.” Hubby stops in mid-jabber and says, “What’s that for?” She grabs the fleshy inner part of his thigh that hasn't seen a Lifecycle in two years and says, “Just because.”

I took my wiener off the back burner, wrapped it up in wax paper, and stuffed it in the freezer behind the other mystery meat.

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