The women sat with her arms up over her head, slouched on the front bench seat of the Metro bus as though someone were pummeling her with a steady stream of hard blows. She's crazy as a pet coon, I thought. Sharon's expression. I always wondered where she got that. People got on the bus, paused as if to take the seat next to her, noticed her there, moved on hesitantly back into the bus. She was taking up three or four seats, slouched as she was, and with her dirty jeans and dusty coat, and the persistence with which she kept her arms up, like a fighter in the clenches, quiet and resinged to fate, but trying to minimize the pain of the inevitable punches. I sat across the wide asile facing her, trying to avoid taking in the sadness wafting around her in the confines of the bus, which was even strong than her body odor. I didn't want to see, and I was even annoyed at having her take so many seats, having her invade the privacy of the arc of my view. Someone tripped a bit over her foot, which extended out absently into the aisle. It was a man of fifty in a suit and light tan trench coat. He looked back at her and moved on towards the rear of the bus, a slight shake to the head as if to say jeeze, what's with you, lady. I smirked a bit to myself knowingly. This bus is full of dirty people any more. Indigents. The deaf. People with acrid smells. Where do they come from at 7:13 on a weekday morning, out here where I live? They must be on some government program, I thought. The guy who tripped over her feet shuffled on to the back of the bus. Finally someone decided to be assertive (since there were no more seats on the bus, and hardly anyplace to stand as we neared the University). He tapped her shoulder (oh god, he touched her, I thought), and asked her to move. For a brief second, she let her arms down and looked at the man acosting her, standing above her in a suit under a trench coat, holding onto the rail above him, swaying with the bus's movement. She scooched over submisively, dragged her feet back in a little closer to herself, and then brought the arms back up over her face. Peek-a-boo, I thought. peek-a-boo. We climbed the hill onto campus, where everybody gets off. I always stay on until just after campus, the end of the line. She didn't get off either, of course. I knew it, I thought. The young man with the long hair who likes to speak to strangers about his political thoughts got up and approached. I've got nothing against him. He smiles at everybody. I should be more like that, I've thought. Yeah, but admit it. He annoys you with his opptimism and naivte. He's got a lot to learn, you alsways think when you see him. He's been on this bus every morning for several months now, and you haven't spoken to him since the first time, when he asked you when this bus gets to the U district. You've avoided his smiling eyes since then. I'd just as soon read my book you say. Anyway, this kid with the long hippy hair and the jeans and heavy black boots gets up and touchs Ms. Peek-a-boo on the shoulder. "Excuse me. It's the last stop. you've got to get off now," he says. But I don't see her reaction. I'm already stepping down the bus stairs, my feet hitting the soft trampled strip of dirt between the curb and the sidewalk, jumping a little puddle and striding out on the concrete. The light at the corner is flashing. If I hurry, I can make it.
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