What a ride.
I’m starving. I haven’t eaten a lot today. Three coffees. I fixed the coffee machine at work. The French guy who sits next to me talks too much. He thought it was broken. It wasn’t. I fixed it. I didn’t make a coffee. I bought one. Another girl from work shouted me the other. I actually only had two. I also ate a salad. I bought the ingredients from the murder mall. I didn’t get murdered. I did get rocket. And cucumber and feta. No tomato. That was a mistake. It was a light salad. I ate it in a meeting. I had two meetings today. The same amount as my coffees. I had one of those coffees in the meeting. It was nice.
There’s a guy on the bus who just split the side of his pants. “Ohh no!” He says. “I just split the side of my pants. It’s bullshit, ay. It’s the first time I wore these pants.”
He’s on his own but talking to the bus driver. I can’t see the reaction of the driver because I’m sitting about 5 seats behind him. I’m also trying to not look up too many times. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.
He bought them two weeks ago. Size 38. This is the first time he’s wore them. They were originally pants but he cut them into shorts. It’s almost winter.
He shits once every three weeks sometimes, which means he hasn’t done a shit whilst in ownership of the pants. Shorts. But when he does he says it’s coated in blood. He thinks he’s got cancer. But don’t worry, he’s going to tell the doctor next time. Next time?
I’m looking at the split and then down at my iPad, then back up to the split. The dark hairs on his thigh are poking through. It’s not a fixable split. He’s a big guy. He only poohs once every three weeks.
He proceeds to tell the bus driver all of the above including the time he shat in the bush. He had to go but luckily he had a plastic bag to clean it up. “When you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go,” he says.
I feel sad.
His father raped him. His father and one of his mates. He hasn’t shitted the same since. “Dirty dog” he exclaims to the bus driver, “I told ‘im he was a dirdee dog.”
The bus stops. He pulls himself up off the seat and grabs his shopping bags. The neon sign outside reflect a greenish glow down one side of his pudgy face. He’s probably going home. He only got on three stops ago. He must have been too tired to walk. He’s probably had a big day. I’ve had a big day.
We’ve reached the end of the line. I continue to write. I’m the last one to leave. I get off and walk the 100 meters to my front door. I’m tired. I think I’ll make a salad for dinner.
Vanessa Anne ‘Vinny’ Robinson (Born 15 March 1988) is a Sydney Art Director, social media user and sometimes writer.