Thoughts For Your Hole by Smith Q. Johns

By Eddie Knight

By Eddie Knight

I was walking to the bus from work one day, on my way to pick up my child. I noticed (from about four blocks away) that the bus was coming and the only way to make it was to sprint. If I wasn’t going to get penalized for being late by my child’s (government funded) daycare, then I would have gladly waited another thirty minutes for the next bus.

I would have gladly waved to the passing bus, gladly walked my slow ass to the bus stop and watched other assholes running to get to their bus. I would have then gladly written some clever anecdote, gladly daydreamed about how great what I wrote was, and gladly not have been out of breath. But that’s not what happened.

Now, I’m not very fast so my sprinting was more like a light jog for normal athletes. I did, however, have a very full backpack and four layers of clothing on, so it was still a decent workout. Block after block I weaved in and out of the way like a crappy running-back, thinking, “At what point do I stop doing this and just consider myself too old for this shit?”

“This shit” being running through slippery sidewalks and almost knocking the elderly down. After startling quite a few people I finally got to the bus just at the last second. She had almost left without me. The driver had just started to pull back into traffic when I knocked on the closing doors.

If you are near the point where you can kind of walk in front of the bus then there’s a slight chance they’ll stop. I know this from experience.

If they see you and you’re running to the bus but you’re, you know, too far to damage the bus (by hitting it or whatever) they usually say fuck you (I presume) and drive away, unless maybe you’re a super model or something. I know a thing or two about how this public transit nonsense works. So nonetheless, and despite my odds, I got on the bus.

I was out of breath at this point and everyone was staring. I walked to my usual back seat and sat down. A woman had a big grin on her face and said, “Did you have to run far?” But the way she asked it sounded more curious than sympathetic, more of a feeling maybe that I was PATHETIC?

The telling factor was when after I told her how far I had run (which seemed really short in retrospect), she replied, “Oh, good! You needed it!” To which I raised eyebrows and looked down at my physique, wondering if she was inferring something about my health. I looked at her and smiled, but only to be polite in response to her now laughing.

“Maybe I’ll just jog home,” I should have said to her. “I’ll just get off at the next stop.”

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