If I were a was a bus I’d pretend I was a whale. I’d pick up Captain Ahab and run down whoever called himself Ishmael.
I’d be the party bus for Israel. I’d be the bus like boxcars railing jews to the fun forest.
I’d swoop to within inches of my prey, my exhaust settling over them. Made to wait for the door to open, yet they step happily in. Burp.
I’d have a blowhole the size of three Volkswagons juggling ten Russians. He that petered the greatest I’d transport gratis to new lands on freeway or bubbles. I’d always have champagne.
Hello, Charlemagne. Would you like to sit in the driver’s seat? Hello, Little Donald Trump. Squish. Oops. Sorry about that.
If I were a was a bus I suppose I’d be lonely and compensate by erratically driving and endangering people’s safety.
If I were a was a bus I’d bus a zillion boobs.
I’d… well I’d rather not think about that.
huuuuuuummmmmmmmmm this looks like your bus coming now…
I purr when you get on. Vibrating in surround.
you think I’m an empty bus at first. purrrrrrrrrrr.
as the door is shut
as you carefully walk down the metal tongue. clink clink… clink
Hee Hee
you notice you’re not alone. you have passed three huddled bodies.
you see a “rear exit” and sit down next to it.
there is graffiti on the back of the seat ahead. “loste.” scrawled twice.
If I were a was a bus I’d forget about you for happily carrying advertisements on my side with many big white teeth. I’d suggest you see the world one gleaming product after another. When was the last time you called your mother?
If I were a was a bus I’d carry a rage that couldn’t be quenched by merely plowing through sidewalks and parking lots. There wouldn’t be Sunday swap meets when the word was I were around. I’d travel the world by land and by sea I believe I would find some time to be happy where I’d meander contentedly and scratch my belly on coral.
Captain Ahab is ringing the exit bell frantically.
ding ding ding ding ding
ding ding ding
ding ding
ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding
you were pretty smug as we pulled away from the curb. you stumbled to your seat but now that you’re in it you’re smitten with your prospects. not so fast there, young passenger, or I should say not so slow. the acceleration you are experiencing is past the leisure pace you expected. we are careening within a hair’s breadth of loss of control. you are grasping the bar beside you and staring wildly out the window. you have become light headed and are near the stage of passing out. when you feel the sensation of the bus being only on its left wheels you figure “this is it”. we come to a slamming stop. you should stand and exit through that door but you cannot. a piercing shriek like a do-or-die charge has materialized in body form to surround you. the bus is full. full of ghostly, pressed, clean, potent, brown wavery uniforms. the shriek intensifies. you’re having difficulty breathing but you are not choking. it is murky. you cannot see out the windows.
Ollie Akbar and his cousin Ollie Ollie Inkumfree are playing a game of chicken as I round the corner and splash down the street; they stand right in the middle of it. Ollie Ollie Inkumfree cocks his head as if he has just heard something then runs as fast as he can to get out of my way. Ollie Akbar stands and faces me yelling, “I am Ollie Akbar. Ollie Ah Akbar!” I swerve to hit Ollie Ollie Inkumfree and he explodes on impact. Ollie Akbar stands silent and disappointed then takes off his shoe and throws it at me. It misses by 300 feet.
inside, you saw none of that. about you is a whispering or a scurrying or a beating on windows and each other. you become aware of an incessant dinging and strain to make out the source. you see an old man, an old but vital man, pulling the wire. pulling the wire. you yell at that man. hey. how long have you been pulling that wire? “whaaat?” how long have you been pulling that thing? “how long… how long have you been pulling that thing?” christ, is there no situation where the humiliation ends? what’s your name? “Captain. Captain Ahab. Grab the other wire, man, and pull it for all you’re worth.”
Now that I’m a was a bus, a whale of were, a dazy force of nature, I’m leaving this town for good. The guy with the fishing pole attached to his hands and the hook up his butt and stuck like a barnacle in a baleen crease is blown free, pinging off each Russian dancer on his way to the clouds. The crowd ooohs and I take out a slice of them with a fishtail. Aaahs.
What skill. What drive. What magnificent lines.
but you are too nauseous to reach up as you have been commanded until you feel the chill into the brain stem which jerks despite you and wraps fingers around the cord and Dings. her appearance as a floating bubble releases consecutive bursts of promise. you’d think you were gaining a mind as Sylvia, Oda, Marie, Florence Nightengale, the bubble, is placing a damp cloth on your forehead and poofing her lips in your eyes. she whispers “what are you doing here?” naturally you don’t know. “Flee”, she screams terribly, and the rear door opens. you see sunlight and the fear piercing scream catapults you out onto W 49th street next to a man selling hot dogs.
