Friday, March 19, 2010

Bus terminals just feel dirty. There is the anxiety produced by all that waiting the weariness of a commute dictated by a time table of scheduled departures and arrivals and the uncomfortable flourescent lighting accenting a neverending tile floor, dotted with islands of standard metal benches that often serve as beds. The token vending machine. Phone conversations in an unfamiliar tongue, and the rustling of a plastic bag behind me. You don't look people in the eye, we look down at our feet making hollow tapping sounds on those tiles, under a matte coating of disinfectant and soap that the mop left behind. The bathrooms are eerily quiet, except when ex-cons bussing it from san bernadino to who knows where are washing their hair in the sink. Looping sample of a ringing bell to signify the arrival of a train and a soft voice over the speaker asking to please, for your safety, report anything suspicious. Change machines making me think of las vegas. I wonder who patented the little folded yellow caution wet paint sign? He probz makes more money in a day than I do in fifty.