The Pixies' Gigantic pipes through the player up into the strung wires then into my ears through those miniature speakers as I stand along the roadside. 'Megan' (as I call her) walks over in her ever-present exploration between a comfortable stroll and in anticipating amble. She quickly turns away from me upon her arrival, her soles crunching against the gravel as she flourishes. I exit my attention of her presence and breathe deep through my nose, taking in the chill to set my consciousness ablaze. The air is clear and the sky appears as a pale blue, a rarity to be sure since it has been raining constant for what seems like months and months. Before I am able to contemplate further, an elongated articulated bus rolls up, its engine groaning under its own weight. 'Megan' shows the vacant-eyed driver her pass, to which he displays absolutely no reaction whatsoever in spite of the fact that he had swiveled his hulking form about forty-five degrees so he could observe us two fully as we enter.
'Megan' takes an elevated seat ahead of the pivot joint, where I end up slightly behind it. After I settle in, it's not long until I must endure an over-the-top mutated Midwestern-Southern twang from a shaggy "mulleted" ectomorph. He embarks with a similar entourage at where else but that stop I dub as the 'Pickle-Ernie.' The reason of this nomenclature being previously documented within the endless archives of the past five years. Not only is the unrelenting "twang" in full effect, but the incessant tang of recently smoked tobacco combined with unwashed bodies, hints of cheap hard liquor mixed with stomach bile, and of course squirrely ogling.
You know, all those components that make a ride complete and meaningful.
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