By Charly “the city mouse” Fasano
As I wait at my bus stop I watch a hippie pray for peace in front of newspaper headlines while his dog shits on the sidewalk.
A less than clever con man is trying to sell a stolen car battery in front of a bicycle shop.
I see the 15 Limited straddle rush hour. I jumble through my pockets for bus fair.
It’s a hot day. The driver is out of transfers. The bus is packed. There’s no close like this. Passengers stand hip to hip, canned in transit up and down Colfax Ave.
We rattle past hotels with signs that lie about having clean rooms and cable TV.
Past the Guardian Angel headquarters that’s never open.
Past a hooker wearing a Broncos football jersey, sweatpants and running shoes. Only cops look like prostitutes in movies.
Home is getting closer.
The bell rings just before my stop on Downing St.
I swim through commuters toward the back door between excited junkies right after a methadone treatment.
I step over an ex con wearing court ordered jewelry around his ankle. He’s hitting on the lady sitting next to him. He’s trying hard to act like a free man.
I trip on an oxygen tank hooked to a man bitching about the price of cigarettes.
Down three steps
Out the back door
To the street.
How I get place to place is filthy. Jerky motions and smells tested me until I got here.
Times like these should never cost more than a dollar fifty.