my freshmen are diligently working on writing vignettes and i usually share one that i wrote several years ago in college. after reading this example over and over again, i finally decided to break down and like a good little teacher, revise, revise, revise. so here’s latest edition of “Bus Stop Blues”. enjoy.

Some of my strongest childhood memories are of riding the Bi-State bus. Others may remember a favorite bicycle or a stuffed animal, but I fondly recall my love/hate relationship with St. Louis’ public transportation system.

I attended a magnet high school in the Central West End and among the things the school did not have, the big yellow school bus topped the list. So every week I stood in line and begrudgingly bought my $1 bus pass for the North Kingshighway and Forest Park/Oakland buses.

Part of my daily bus ritual was a transfer at Kingshighway. The bus shelter—what qualified as one—was on a tiny island of concrete lodged between a highway off-ramp and rush hour traffic. One or two remaining brown plastic “windows” advertising various gang tags offered little in the way of refuge from the wind, and two twisted posts hinted at the one-time presence of an aluminum bench. Most notably was the aroma of urine and malt liquor, which never seemed to clear.

What forever imprinted me more than the sounds and smells of my Bi-State experience, were the people I had a chance to rub shoulders and legs with. One particular rider I was less inclined to rub anything with was a old homeless lady. From my spot on the bus I could see this lady three blocks away. It wasn’t hard for her to stick out when she wore only a housecoat and slippers in December. Once the bus doors sighed opened and she paused mumbling to herself, she would slowly hobble up the steps. Usually bypassing the payment portion of her bus ride, she would rock and sway with the bus rhythm closer to her station which was within mumbling distance of the driver.

What made her most interesting, other than the mumbling, which is novice by crazy standards, was her appearance. Any month of the year she would be sporting the latest in house coat fashion. She wore a threadbare yellow housecoat that had months of grime and stains worn in. The pockets were torn and the hem, non-existent. Her hair was the tangled, yellowed nap of combs forgotten. Her feet, red and blistered from the cold, were encased in dingy pink terry cloth slippers. Her thick, yellowed toenails grasped the slipper’s edges as if in defiance.

She stood, one soiled hand gripping the overhead bar, the other gripping a coffee can and half-lit cigarette. The coffee can, her constant companion, held assorted trash, ashes, and spittle from the phlegm she hocked up during her short ride. The stench wafting from the can and her armpit waving recklessly in the air made me breathless.

Sensing her stop, her thin veiny arms would reach out towards the driver, and with as much force as her withered frame could muster, she would yell in a mucus-filled gurgle, “At the corner!”

well it’s 12:30 am on a monday night. why am i still up? why am i posting on my blog when i should be in bed, asleep, dreaming of peace on earth and good will toward men?

it’s called insomnia and i am one of its minions. i’m not exactly sure when it all started, when i started to have trouble sleeping, but it’s been the bane of my existence for as long as i can remember.

this is how it starts: it’s seven o’clock and i sure could use some aspirin for this raging headache i have. gee, maybe i’ll wash it down with some pepsi. *three hours later* it’s getting late, maybe i’ll do some reading before i go to bed…look at the time. better get to bed! i wonder how my kids are going to be with my sub tomorrow? hmmm. what should my mythology class do instead of a test on friday? i know! they’ll act out parts of the trojan war and that way they’ll have to interact with each other and their texts and show greater understanding of the characters and story by creating dialogue-based skits and then my feet got hot and i can’t sleep if i have warm feet, don’t ask me why i don’t know and then the cat wants to cuddle but it’s getting hot and i don’t want to disturb the cat because this is one of the few times when he isn’t trying to gnaw my hand off and then i start thinking about the house i want to buy and what it’s going to look like and the furniture i want to put in it; do you think red will look okay on the walls or should i go with the tan and will we like living in st. louis and will we get good jobs at places we love, and, and, and….

you get the picture. it’s like this almost every night. although, i’m not usually up until one in the morning hashing out my one-way conversation. eventually my brain does shut itself off, and i can wander into dreamland. sometimes it takes the assistance of a little tylenol pm, but better that than the alternative: not-enough-sleep-black-duffle-bag-under-eye-mega-bitch-don’t-make-me-want-to-hurt-you dawn. she’s not very pleasant to be around.

but that’s my routine. i unwind after a long day at night before bed. my mind is going a mile a minute and it’s when i’m at my most thoughtful and creative. how convenient. it’s also when i can work out any problems i’m having at work with my students, or think of something fun to do in class (or not so fun, as the case might be), create a list of things to do (finish staining my bookcase, buy cute black summer sandals, get two more picture frames for fargo/simon baby pictures–don’t laugh, find the lost treasure of the atocha, learn a language, take up quilting, write a book, etc, etc, etc) and it goes on and on from there.

so if you have any pearls of wisdom, any slices of down home cure-alls, placebos, or exotic elixirs, let me know.

my feet are finally room temperature again and i think the tylenol is kicking in so…

goodnight stars, goodnight moon, goodnight you.

sweet dreams.