Front Seat Drunk

The woman stumbles onto the nine southbound with a drowsy edge in her step. She can barely keep her lids open she’s so drunk. Real trashy piece of work, too. Unkempt hair, ragged nail polish, dirty polyester slacks, dowdy top. She slurs to the driver, something about needing to go to Whyte Avenue, needing to hit a certain bar by a certain time. Driver explains that the bus doesn’t exactly go to Whyte, it merely passes by. She doesn’t seem to care, or is too wasted to care, and plops down on the front seat – right across from me. The smell of stale rum mixed with a twinge of BO permeates the bus. She doesn’t cause any trouble. She just sits there quietly with a sad distance on her face. She seems to fall asleep as the bus traverses the High Level Bridge, and I watch the sun picket through the bridge works behind her head. She bobs asleep just before we hit Whyte Ave, pulls the already pulled next stop cord. She staggers half-lidded to the bus door and gives the driver a “‘sanks, man” just before she steps off. She’s off walking east down the avenue, sun on her back, angelic bottles of rum ahead.