Antipodes; or "Leaving the Kalahari on Christmas Eve to save a dying alien."

It's been a while since we've talked. I've been okay, how are you? Thanks for asking. I hope you're okay too...

This used to all come so easily to me. I could sit down with my morning coffee and ramble on between phone calls for hours. The topics never mattered. Politics, life, writing, fate. Everything was available and equally enticing. Lately it all seems trivial and overwhelming, condescending or conflicted. I fear the encompassing weight of life has finally killed my youthful optimism and fed it's remains to the ravenous dogs of reality. Maybe coming back here is my way of attempting to recover that mangled corpse from the canines jowls. Is it worth the risk? Worth exposing myself to the full brunt of vicious possibilities that surround us everyday? For what? A meager chance to revive something natural selection has already deemed unfit for survival? Even if I'm successful, what do you do with a half eaten alien too beautiful to exist in such times?...

As I glance over the posts I've left here before I find that many of the images are gone. The words still remain and with them I believe I can remember what the photograph would have been. There's no way to know for sure though....

I poured a cup of black coffee from the french press on the granite counter top, studied the flowing liquid with determination and reverence as the white mug slowly filled to just below the brim. Grasping the ceramic with both hands, the warmth transferred to my palms as I raise the mug to my lips. It is far too hot to be consumed yet, so I hold the mug just on the edge of my lower lip and inhale slowly the smell and the heat.
"Why are you waiting?"
"It's far too hot to drink yet."
"But you hold it so close to yourself? Wouldn't you be better leaving it on the counter till it's cooled?"
"Then I would never know when it's ready."...

Love is a funny thing. I've thought I was in love before. I tried so hard to love some people, to be exactly what they wanted and needed from me. I'd have crossed the Kalahari to prove my devotion, not to them, but to myself. I wasn't in love with them, I was in love with the idea of being in love. It has taken me a long time to figure that out and I'm still not fully sure I understand it or even if it's relevant to my current position. Perhaps when the magicians arrive with the rising sun I'll ask them...

Christmas used to be my favorite time of year; the trees, the lights, the overpowering display of mans dominance over the arriving darkness of winter. There is a cold dry feeling in the air that brings a childhood nostalgia for everything that shimmers and comes packaged in vibrant colors. It's been three years now since I've felt that way. It now stands as a memorial to some of the hardest decisions and most difficult times that have come to pass. But for all the turbulence brought by recent years ending, I'm still here...

"This isn't the first time I've seen you here"
"I've come for many years."
"I can see you're different this time."
"Is it so easily identified?"
"With eyes like mine it's easy to see when you carry the weight of your existence as a burden. You no longer carry that weight the same."
"Was it so clear to everyone else?"
"It doesn't matter anymore. You're free."

The alien is worth saving...

Metro Route #7

So here is a short story (emphasis on short) that I wrote about the 7 a while back. It's part of a collection I was doing about various routes, I think that I've posted the 43 story here before. I'm not exactly sure what to do with it. Maybe I'll incorporate it in with my 7 project. Either way I thought I'd share it with all of you...

Metro Route #7: Rainier Beach, Columbia City, Rainier Valley, International District, Downtown.

I fought with my girlfriend, again. She yelled. I yelled. She cried. I yelled some more. She cried some more. And I left. It was becoming more a part of our routine. I’m just not sure how much longer we can really last.

I waited beneath the canopy of a maple tree. Every few minutes someone would walk by. I would make up a story to go a long with them. Like the woman from Detroit who couldn’t handle the stress back east so she came to Seattle only to find that her life was much calmer where she was and now she doesn’t even know if she can make the rent payment much less feed herself. Followed by a man who’s wife just left him and took their children. He’s finding it hard to think and even harder to breathe. Now all he has left is the solemn noise of cars on Rainier Ave. to keep him from pulling the gun from his bedside table and making a choice he is sure to forget. People have all kinds of stories.

The bus crested the hill and rolled to a steady halt. The doors swung open and the driver, a middle aged man with little hair remaining except for a large mustache which he wore with pride. He glanced slightly to acknowledge my presence as I paid the fare, the doors closed and quickly ended our encounter.

Street lights flew past the windows as we pulsed down the most delicate artery of the city. We would stop at times, to let a few teenage girls on or so that a young couple with a newborn could get off. Every beat a new face. Each beat with a new story.

We had risen from the valley by the time that she boarded the bus. Her eyes were well traveled with long dusty blond hair and skin that had aged for too long in the sun. She fumbled with the fare box before sitting down a few yards ahead of me, her hair like a rats nest from the wind.

We reached 14th and Jackson, were many people were entering and exiting the bus. Without my noticing, she was then sitting beside me. Unsure how to respond I sat motionless as we traveled down into the city. We descended into the brief darkness beneath the freeway and I felt her move closer to me. Her thigh pressed tight against my own and I could feel her pulse through the long cotton skirt.

“Do you have a cigarette?” she asked in a voice shallow and hurting, as if she had just been beaten.

“No, I’m sorry I don’t smoke.” I lied.

She smiled politely and then reached over to hold my hand. Her fingers trembled as I cupped her hands. We rode in silence, staring into one another.

As the bus rounded the corner on 3rd I realized the moment would have to end. I slowly moved our hands over her lap and released. With the movement of palm in the wind her hands floated down to her knees. I reached up and pulled the chord.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I uh…” I began to stutter when she stopped me with a closing gesture to my mouth.

“Thank you, for not saying anything.”

I stared into her eyes for a moment longer then I should have and then departed the bus. I wandered the streets of Downtown for hours wondering why I decided I had to get off at that stop. I had no where else to be. Finally, tired of the day and put off by the prospect of rain I boarded another bus home.

About half a block from my apartment I started to gather the stray clothes of mine. A sock here. A tee shirt there. My boxers hanging from the neighbors flower box. Some had already fallen gently to the sidewalk or fallen from the tree taking with them the young branches that failed. Many still were outside my reach. I’m not sure how much longer we can really last.

Danĝera Najbar-Ajo

Alright, so I am going to post this story...

I arrived at the party, fashionably late. I could have spotted the building a quarter mile away. Flashes of colored light poured from the bay view windows. The building was quaint. Nothing about it put me on edge, at least not initially.
As I approached the building, two police officers were escorting one of the other tenants out. It was all in response to an alleged hit and run incident that occurred shortly before, in front of the building.
Fear began to rise up my spine as I passed the officers. I slid three rails of cocaine before the party and all I could envision was white powder coating my nose for all to see. The cops nodded as I walked by paying no attention.
I reached the top of the stairs to find a kid sitting on the front landing smoking a cigarette and drinking vodka on the rocks. We had met before through a mutual friend. We exchanged salutations and he offered me a cigarette, which I gladly accepted.
I could tell he had already thrown back a couple of drink by the slurring of his conversation and disorientation of his motor skills. During our short encounter he knocked over a wine glass, casually left by another guest. Without thinking he began to pick up the shards of broken glass. I was sure I would be taking him to the hospital, but he managed to get most of the glass into the trash without a hitch. I finished the cigarette and moved to the third floor.
-
As I reached the top of the stairs I noticed they had set up a lounge area in the hallway above the stair well. Multicolored streamers hung from the ceiling while a strobe light was giving a couple of guests mild seizures.
I met the hostess and she offered me a drink. I declined. Nothing good would ever come of it.
I mingled around the room, listening to the variety of conversation.
"..at least you took his name. I already told Bryan that I'm not going to, and he ask me every morning if I've changed my mind..."
"...I didn't have time to go shopping, so I just wore pajamas..."
"...there was four inches of standing water in my apartment and a river forging its way out my front door..."
I couldn't follow any one line of thought.
As the night dragged on and more people showed up I found myself becoming more and more uncomfortable. So I made my way back outside and lit a cigarette.
The kid from earlier was still looking over the view. His drink had changed from the time before and I could tell his time was short. He cocked back his head and looked at me as if he couldn't find the words. Then he stood up, nearly fell over, and headed up to the apartment.
I couldn't help but think about the look in his eyes.
-
I moved through the people like seaweed in a high tide. Everyone was sociable and seemed to be enjoying themselves. I made my way out to the lounge to sign a birthday card for the guest of honor.
There he was again. Lying in the chair, seemingly oblivious to the surroundings. He struggled to open his eyes. And for another split second attempted to convey whatever it was he had tried to express to me earlier.
His eyes rolled back into his head and I was still left wondering.
-
The atmosphere was beginning to die down and so was I. I knew more drugs were going to be needed if I was going to go on. I moved toward the bathroom in an attempt to find the necessary sanctuary.
As I opened the door I saw him half sitting next to the toilet. You could see the blur in his eyes cause by the harsh acidic taste violating all his senses. Half digested pieces of ham and sushi littered the bowl of the toilet. There is nothing in the world more repulsive than the smell of liquor induced vomit.
I turned around to leave when his eyes caught my attention once again. And as I looked down on this drunk mess of liquefied flesh I realized the true flaw in humanity. The inability to make out the words when saying them is the only thing that can save us.
The bleach white lights beat down on both of us. His eyes rolled back into his head and his eyelids slowly closed. I notice of bottle of pills spilled beside him. He just couldn't seem to make out the words.
I got up and left. I spoke to no one. Upon reaching the street I hailed a cab.
As I got in all I could say was, "I'm a little sideways, could you take it easy.."

The Monkey and The Frog

There was once a young monkey who lived in the jungle. His life was well. He didn't have a care in the world. Every morning his mother would bring him breakfast and then do some casual grooming to make sure that he didn't get lice. He never did.

After he turned two years old the young monkey decided to wander away from the close eye of his mother. He began to realize that there was so much more to the world than what he'd already seen. He found snails on rocks and eels in the lakes. There were birds larger that him that flew overhead and ants he could barely see beneath him.

He ventured so far that he couldn't remember how to get home. Darkness fell and he became frightened. All of the sounds had changed and were foreign to him. He could feel the blades of grass brushing against him in the wind but couldn't see them. He did not sleep until the sun rose.

As he awoke around midday he began to contemplate his position and how to return to the his mother. While he was pondering this dilemma a small frog approached him from behind. Without any warning the frog jumped and landed on the monkey's head. The monkey began to panic, swatting constantly to remove the frog from his head with no luck. Finally he had worn himself out to the point that he collapsed.

It was in this moment of weakness that the frog saw his opportunity. As soon as the ape hit the ground the frog began calling out with a deep "riiiiiiibbit". Only seconds passed before a large group of frogs began to appear. They encircled the poor monkey while all he could do was lay motionlessly.

They moved closer and closer in with every moment until they had covered the monkey as that no fur was exposed. The force of all the frogs on the monkey was making it difficult for him to breath. He struggled hard to force the frogs from his body long enough to catch one final glimpse of the sky before the frogs choked him to death.

The frogs then sat around laughing, relishing their victory over the ape. Their songs could be heard far and wide through the jungle. Until a loud crash echoed beneath the canopy. The sound stunned all the frogs and they didn't even realize that they had just been ensnared with a net.

They all tried to free themselves at once but the chaos only hindered their escape. Soon a human boy loomed over them, "Looks like monkey and frogs for dinner Pa."

Metro Route #43 (Short Story)

So here's a little something I wrote a while back. By a while I mean almost ten years now. I'm sure that as I read through it a few times I'll find thing that I want to change. You can hit up the comments with your ideas. Strange that it's been that long...

Metro Route #43
by Aka Desomniac

I woke up around 11 am. The half empty bottle of Jack was still resting quietly on my nightstand above a graveyard of empty aluminum cans. I just couldn't bring myself to break the peace that early in the morning. The bottle stood motionless.
My forehead throbbed with stabbing pains in my temples. Blood red eyes replay all the horrors I was trying to forget. Her skins smooth tan complexion. Her eyes set on her face as two swirling pools of blue and gray. Her last words, crushing everything I believed to be real in my life, "I'm not sorry it's over."
Those five words continued treading water through my stream-of-consciousness. I tried drowning them out with whiskey and beer. After 24 years of life, you'd think I'd have learned not to mix liquor and depression. I never claimed to be very bright.
By the time I left my apartment I could already tell my day was going nowhere. Her face was everywhere, the grocer, the mail carrier, even the neighbors Persian cat. With each time I saw those strands of dishwater blond hair, I found myself one step closer to saying my final goodbyes. Dining on a last meal of shotgun shells. An introduction to the afterlife, with a most personal touch. Depression overtook my reality.
My body, being severely hung-over, felt weary and near a state of total collapse after about five miles of walking. Going back wouldn't do. Not now anyways. Without thinking about the consequences I boarded a bus.
Metro transit route 43, serving Downtown Seattle, Capitol Hill, Montlake and University District. 45 minutes each way. But I had nothing but time.
The afternoon rush was in full force as I scanned the crowded bus for an empty seat. One stood out from the rest, the only vacancy, towards the middle of the coach.
I rode, in the same seat, all through the afternoon. The sun began to set on my third lap. An array of crimson streaks fell over the water beneath the Montlake Bridge. The sheer brilliance of color reflected off the water without losing any of its intensity. A sight of such beauty it couldn't be tainted by words. "I'm not sorry it's over." Her words tore through my thoughts, leaving behind an uneasy darkness.
It wasn't until nightfall that I took notice of other passengers. Businessmen and junkies rode side by side. So many different faces, so many different stories. But two faces, one story, stood out among the rest.
They entered the bus at separate times. She came a board with several other Ave Rats just off 45th. She had curly brown strands of hair that accented her smooth skin nearly poetically. She carried a backpack and a white nylon laundry sack.
The people she was with were typical of the area. Hooded sweatshirts that zip up in the front. Greasy tendrils of hair tinted and arranged in a pseudo-rainbow. Trying desperately to be different, ending up just like everyone else.
He got on shortly after, carrying nothing except a jacket. Fiery red hair scattered in all directions, half covering a face that appeared badly beaten by the day. Dark circles set in beneath his eyes. Unshaven skin hung loosely from his cheekbones. His head hung low as if he’d been caught beneath the globe when Atlas gave way.
He sat quietly toward the middle of the bus. She rode in the back, circled by the others.
One of the men with her asked if he could interview her for some kind of project. She reluctantly agreed.
The interview began. “Tell me about your current state of reality – or surreality as the case may be.”
She was got off guard by the question. After taking a moment to think about it she replied, “I feel like we’re exploring a certain part of time that shouldn’t be explored. My reality is crooked, jagged and at time horrifying. I feel like I’m acting in a movie or someone has written the script of my life…”
Her colleague quickly transposed her words onto paper and continued on, “Do you believe in fate?”
Confusion fell over her face. “What kind of assignment is this?”
“It’s for my metaphysics class. I know it’s a little odd, but… do you believe in fate?”
“Well, no. It destroys the idea of free will. I won’t go into why I think that. It’s pretty apparent we have freewill. Outside forces will always affect our lives. But with the given amount of freedom we have the general direction we travel is ultimately left to one’s self.”
“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
“Physically I’d like to be on another continent. Mentally I plan to be on the road.”
“Maybe I should rephrase the question. Where do you see yourself spiritually in five years?”
“That’s one thing I can’t attempt to predict. I think that could be where fate comes in…”
The interview was over.
The ride between 15th and Broadway was fairly uneventful. A few more people got on, none of them for very long. We reached Broadway and East John and the Ave Rats descended onto the paved sidewalks, leaving myself, the young man, the woman - and the bus driver.
She moved to the front of the bus, nearest to the driver and began a conversation, mostly with herself. I faintly heard her say, "Seattle is so harsh, so full of money." The young man looked up. Silence.
She began to ramble on about the influence of Southern California, namely Torrance, on her upbringing. Compton was mentioned briefly. It was hard to decipher the words as they were blustered through the hurricane of open windows.
I could tell that he was having the same troubles understanding her words. His eyes wandered aimlessly around the bus and out the windows into the darkness and lights.
She continued on about her bag being full of clothes and how she got a hold of them. A group of Catholic nuns in southern Oregon had taken her in for a short while, with the intent of getting her back on her feet. What she carried with her was the extent of her belongings.
She diverged from her rant to ask the bus driver if he knew of any shelters in the area, mentioning something about a list of them that she had, somewhere. The bus driver didn't know.
We began the coast down Pine St. into the heart of the city. No one got onto the bus, no one got off.
As we got deeper into the city I could tell that she was becoming locked into some kind link with the other man. Her eyes scrambled about haphazardly. Occasionally she would hesitate on his form and stare deep into his eyes as she babbled more and more. His eyes never moved.
We made our way across the city, Ninth Avenue to First Avenue before stopping. As the bus came to a stop they both began to gather their belongings. Before exiting he looked up at her and said the words that we all could tell where coming. "What do you want most in this life?"
She looked up at him, half cracking a smile, and then turned to look out of the window. "I want someone or something to assure me that my struggle isn't for nothing."
He nodded his head and they both left the bus, through different doors.
The bus driver looked back at me and said, "This is where I take break for an hour."
"I guess you can't drive forever," I replied and moved toward the door. "Thanks for the ride."
"Anytime, man."
I walked quietly down the metal steps and onto the harsh reality of the cement sidewalks. Plastic bags and empty alcohol bottles littered the sidewalk. I could see men sleeping in torn clothing near the warmth of the buildings.
Without warning the young man from the bus turned around and yelled to the girl, "I would like to make an attempt to help reassure you… If you're interested?"
She turned around. Her eyes lit the dull sidewalk with an iridescent aura. "How about coffee?"
They both smiled.
I followed them to a small cafe two blocks away, The Turf. A large neon sign lit up the letters R F above the door. Panhandlers and drug dealers convened in front of the large windows. The only other store open was a second floor adult novelty store, directly across the street.
They took a seat at a booth near the back; I sat at the bar in front of the kitchen. I could see their movements, but the words were lost, once again, through the general ambience.
The waitress was in the kitchen; probably having just ran out to the corner for a fix. Five minutes passed before she appeared. She approached me first.
She was about 5'8", with no sign of flesh. I could see nearly every bone in her face and hands. Her skin was reminiscent of an old leather sofa. She was exactly as I had expected her to be.
Before she could initiate the conversation I made my move. "Coffee. Black." It was all business here.
"Food?" she replied with a hint of irritation in her voice.
"Just coffee."
She took the flimsy paper menu that had been placed on the counter for me and moved it to her apron pocket. All the necessary items were in place, a mug and coffee pot. She filled the cup only three quarters and spilled a noticeable amount down the side and on the bar.
Without saying another word the waitress moved over to the booth, pot of coffee in hand. She filled their cups and took the menus. They ordered some kind of food.
I watched as they talked and laughed and drank their coffee. It was quiet possibly the worst coffee I had ever past through my system. I began to question how long it had been there and how the other two could be drinking it. I noticed that the man in the booth hadn't really drank much, while the woman had attempted to compensate for the lack of quality with about five packs of sugar and two non-dairy creamers. I suffered through it black.
The waitress brought a plate of what looked like pancakes and placed it in the center of the table. The young man positioned it perfectly in front of the other side of the table. She ate everything on the plate. He smiled the whole time.
A man took the seat next to me at the bar. I knew someone would eventually. He ordered a coffee, to go. I made no attempt to acknowledge the man adjacent to me but continued to look off at the booth, in the back.
"Sometimes love can find you in the strangest places."
The familiarity in the voice was startling. Purely by reflex I turned around and looked at the man next to me. The bus driver.
We both looked at the couple in the booth. "I guess it does," I replied.
"Well, I've got to get back up the hill."
"Can you give me a minute and I'll ride with ya."
"No problem, I'm going to warm up the coach."
I watched the back booth for a moment longer. I reached for my wallet and left a five on the bar. I got up to leave. When I reached the door I turned around for one last glimpse. He had switched sides and was holding her in his arms. Their eyes were locked on one another just as they had been, nearly an hour ago, as well fell down Pine St into the city.
I turned away. It was over.
I walked back over to the bus, exchanged salutation, and we took off up the hill. I sat in the back and looked out the window, onto the Seattle streets. A homeless family nestled together for warmth. A pigeon perched on top of a dented steel garbage can. A middle-aged man resting quietly near the entrance to the bus tunnel, a mix-breed dog sleeping up against his chest.
I guess I’m not sorry its over either.

If Burien is the Kirkland of the south, then Kirkland is the Burien of the east...

NOTE: Dad, I know this might not be 100% correct. But I think you’ll agree that it accurately conveys the insanity that occurred on that sunny summer afternoon in Kirkland.

I was in Kirkland last night and we stopped at Kidd Valley to eat, on the way back from Costco and the brew store. While we're (my dad and I ) were in line the woman at the register starts screaming at the people in the kitchen, "This is all wrong! Shit! Can't you fools getting a fuckin thang right back there!" At which point the other woman assisting here went into the back and the cashier starts again, "Thats right bitch you better go back there!" Then the person who appeared to be the manager said something from the back I couldn't hear but got a rise out of the cashier. "I don't need anybody else. Fuck I got this whole thing down. I been here longa that you have. I know how the run the fucking counter." I should mention there were about 50 in the Kidd Valley, and about 20 of them in line. So I get to the front of the line and she was like, "I take your order now". So I begin to order and before I can even finish saying "chicken sandwich" she turns around and starts screaming at these people in the kitchen again. When she’s done she turns around and says "I take your order now." I just looked at her and was like "Really?” and she's like "yeah I do it now, I know what I’m doing!" So we place our order (which she got wrong in the end) and go have a seat.

Now there is an older couple 55-60 at the table across from us and the woman is on her cell phone. The first thing that I hear her say on the phone is "good their here now." Then two cop cars roll up in the Kidd Valley parking lot and block in the car with 6 kids in it from leaving. My dad and I exchange an "Oh God" look at each other to which cell phone woman looks over and says "OPEN CONTAINER! Those kids have open containers!" The cops then empty this car of kids, two teenage girls, in absolutely nothing, hop out and start lounging on the grass while the four dude start mouthing off to the cops. One cop goes over and spends the whole time talking with these scantily clad girls while the other two interrogate the guys. Sure enough they start making em walk the line. Cell phone woman is getting all worked up in the restaurant, continually repeating "OPEN CONTAINERS"

About 10 has passed since we ordered and we still don’t' have food.

So they then cuff 2 of the 4 guys because they just wouldn't shut up it seemed like. Cashier woman is now running around the restaurant with her purse trying to get someone in the place to tell her how to change the settings on her home phone which was forwarding to her cell phone.
More people are continuing to show up.

So then my dad goes up to find out what the deal is with the food. And cashier woman is like " you look like you do tele com work...show me how this is done." My dad just looks at her blankly while the new people working the cashier finally get him the food. Then the cashier woman disappears (for a while).

We get our food and things seem to be settling down, when one of the cops comes into the restaurant and demands to speak with the owner, not the manager, the owner. Who isn't there. Then cell phone woman gets up and starts yelling at the cop "OPEN CONTAINERS!" The cop looks at her and says "ma'am I don't know what you're talking about but you need to quit yelling that." At which point she trys to explain to the cop she saw the kids drinking and the cop just looked at her and said, "Well you're not a cop and unless the owner of the property is here and has any reason for me to keep them I'm letting em go." Cell phone woman almost broke into tears. She grabs her husband and is like "we're leaving!" So then the cop goes back outside and almost at the same instance cashier lady is back. Now she's with the manager walking around to all the tables individually apologizing for her rants earlier and when they get to my dad and I she’s like, "Where you here when I flew off the handle earlier?" I’m just thinking, "WTF bitch." But politely reply, "oh yeah, we had a scene." The manage then apologizes for the problem and has to practically smack the cashier woman to apologize, "I’m sorry just people stealing food and yelling at me and..." At which point my dad wanted to cut in, "Well if you were really sorry about it you wouldn't stand here and make excuses and your boss here wouldn't have to force you to do it." But her boss cut in and just took over the scene apologized again and then went to the next table.

We finished eating and went outside. One of the kids was in the back of the cop car cuffed. All the other kids were sitting on the grass laughing with the two cops, one of which was holding a breathalyzer.

We just drove away.

I've found that when some people don't like my answer they will pause, for a long time...

I left work yesterday around 530. The sun was hot, but I decided to walk to QFC. Rainier was the usual wasteland. Fast food burger wrappers and plastic bottles lined the street for miles. As I was passing a small hardware store a woman, not too far away, let out a slight squeak and pointed in my direction. I gave her a quizzical look and pointed at myself as if asking a question. She replied with a smile and then waved before turning to head up the road. The grocery store was full of people. Everyone eager to please their family by bringing home the perfect meal. I weaved in and out of the displays and aisles, hoping my stay would go unnoticed, which it did. I left with my paper bag of meat and potatoes. The bus was pulling up to McClelland the same time I did, we were both stopped by a red light. The light turned green and we both moved into the intersection. The bus reached the stop before I did giving people time to exit the coach. As I reached the shelter I noticed that a young woman was sitting on the bench burning a plastic comb. Her eys moved wildly around the shelter as the smoke danced around her. I couldn't tell if she was intoxicated by the fumes or some other mind bending drugs. But for those few seconds that I observed her before boarding the bus she was beautiful...