Two women–one tall, one short: very quietly, and almost unnoticed, they sneak through the rear door of the number 22 Clark Street bus about a block or two south of Belmont. This small feat is accomplished by taking advantage of the exit of two very old, very slow-moving men, both sporting battered Atlanta Braves caps and carrying those new recyclable plastic Butera bags. Possibly the men are brothers, or even twins, but since both are wearing sunglasses (although it’s nine in the evening) it’s hard to tell.
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The blond stands up for a minute. She is close to six feet tall, probably late twentysomething, pale complexion, fierce platinum blond crew cut. She’s in mid-length blue-jean shorts with several bleach spots on the right leg, white socks, scruffy black combat boots–real ones, not the kind they sell at the Wild Pair–and an oversized white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She reaches in a pocket and produces a pair of ugly, black-rimmed vintage reading glasses. They fit her face perfectly and give her a sort of aloof, don’t-fuck-with-me look. Before she sits down, she fishes something else out of her pocket, a black SILENCE=DEATH button with an inverted pink triangle, which she polishes on her right pants leg and sticks on the left rolled-up sleeve.
The other woman looks friendlier. She has shoulder-length brown hair, styled like Dana Delaney’s always was on China Beach. Her oversized black shift is wrinkled here and there, but her patent leather pumps are spotless, and she’s clutching an arrest-me-red Chanel purse by the little chain that doubles as a strap if you pull it in a certain way. The purse looks real, not like the type you see in discount stores on Bryn Mawr.
“Girl, chill out,” her friend with the book says. Her words are clipped, direct, reassuring. “He’s not going to do anything,” she adds, returning to her book. The man nods, moving over so that he is directly across from her. She takes a sly peek at him from behind her book, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge his presence. For several minutes–all the way to Addison–he pretends to read the graffiti on the seats, many of the four-letter words misspelled. She takes two more peeks at him; he catches her the last time she does this and whispers some comment. She leans back, crosses her legs, and continues to stare at the same page.
“Everything! It has everything to do with everything!” Donna shouts. She sits back and crosses her arms. Her outburst has awakened the elderly woman with the Enquirer in her lap and made the bus driver look over her shoulder once or twice. The driver stops at Waveland a bit longer than necessary, expecting the worst. Nothing happens; the elderly woman resumes her napping, the young man turns away, pouting, and the bus lurches ahead.
