With Ill Regulated Proclivity in Tow

A minivan cuts off the bus to which the driver slams on the brakes and screams out "goddammit!!!"
The entire cabin-populace nods forward from the inertial deceleration in involuntary uniformity. The sudden outburst elicits a rather intense discussion between a select few anticommuters sitting by the driver. One in the side-facing row behind the cockpit wearing a newsboy cap and sporting a neck tattoo of a sword-wielding angel is the second most vocal. The most outraged is one on the opposing side that blasts story after story of his experiences with driving under such conditions. I attempt to drown out the verbal deluge with a bit of The Chicken Farm pouring out of my earphones.
It is to absolutely no avail.
None.
Their whining enthusiasm remains unmatched and unheeded in every which way. The only solace I possess is the knowledge that they will be departing the bus soon. How do I know this? I just do. Call it experience, alchemy, prescience, hocus-pocus, whatever. It just has finally come to this regardless of what one's preconceived notions may be about prejudicial inklings; I just can tell if one belongs on a certain route, wherever it may originate or its final destination. Those I speak of did not belong on this route, hence my nickname, "anticommuters." And just as predicted, they all leave at the last free stop downtown.
The reader (a few and far between) can take this anyway they'd like. Rest-assured they will, indeed with their ill-regulated proclivity in tow.

It Is Only a Matter of Time When The Rain Will Come

I sit here after just embarking for the ride home on the per diem route. After the usual mix of anticommuters taking advantage of the free ride zone and the customary regulars hop up a pair of "unusuals" take seats a few rows up from myself. I could tell because they spoke incessantly in low undertones. They consisted of a plump woman with '20s style cropped highlighted hair in dark horned rimmed glasses and a taller man with lamb chop sideburns of dark brown wearing a "newsboy" cap. They pass my seat to my left. The woman must be in her late thirties, a black and white tweed long coat covers her porcine frame. The look on her face is grim and I can hear her take the row directly behind me with a rocketing plummet. The man possesses zero expression and walks with an easy stride of someone whose age is hard to pinpoint. He has a tan canvass satchel strapped across one shoulder that he swings forward before taking the aisle seat.
I hear the woman speak first: "Why doesn't he just save himself the discomfort and pick the side-facing row?"
"Maybe he likes his knees folded like an accordion?" came his reply.
"I'm being serious."
"Who cares. People do what they do."
"Yeah but it just all seems so insane."
"And pointing out the obvious accomplishes-?"
There was silence here, which allows me to catch up on writing this dialog. Luckily I am able to follow, for their voices are held low making them speak slowly.
"Why are you always like this?" she continues.
"Like what?"
"Can't you just go along with it? You always must fight or say the opposite thing."
"What would be the fun in that?" he says with a laugh.
"I'm just trying to relieve a little tension by talking about anything. It helps-"
"The only thing it helps is your self-rationalization of superiority over the common element."
"Not that you're any different."
"As it has started, so this conversation remains meaningless."
"You never admit to anything."
"Why continue to follow a pointless thread? It'll always end frayed and limp without any usefulness," again I am able to catch up since she pauses and he waits for her to respond.
I cannot imagine that it would end here...
"Really, you never speak plain. Can't you relieve yourself of speaking in riddles. So pretentious."
"Jeez."
"What?"
"I said, 'JEEZ'!"
"Nothing else to say?"
"Anything I say shall be picked apart into a zillion pieces like a toddler shredding up a newspaper." [I think this is what he said, although I may have had to paraphrase.]
"Yeah. You always did try to take the easy way out of things. You'd always rather hide behind your large words and self-assured existence."
"Find my way out of what exactly? So far there has been no purpose to anything that has been said. I mean if I were to write down this entire dialog people would read it and become pissed off at me for actually taking the time to waste their time."
"Go ahead. Hide what you really feel. It makes no difference to me."
"Obviously."
"Obviously?"
"Yes."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning out of your own self-proclaimed apathy you ironically continue to speak."
"You're such a jerk, you know that?"
"If it makes you feel better, by all means be my guest to call me names. After all, you are an expert tongue lasher."
"How dare you."
"Please, spare me your sanctimonious outrage. You always have something to say, something to spurn, something to scourge for no other reason because you can. You can't ever just shut up. You always must rally your troops for the sole purpose of boosting your self-deflated ego. Well bravo to you. Let your pride surge through you."

Ok, not listening anymore. Besides, my writing hand really is starting to cramp up.

The Wood-Fired Pizza Place Is Sorely Out of Business

The one just across in the tan leather jacket doing the morning paper crossword sits in a nonchalant manner. I'm not sure if he recognizes me. I do however recall his existence. One late afternoon last summer he talked my ear off amidst a swirl of distillery fumes emanating from his oral cavity. In the present time one would not even guess of such capability. His face reminds me of Henry David Thoreau, except with shorter hair. He might be approaching the "civil disobedience" bit if he continues hitting the happy hour hard, but then the opposite effect would be realized for the remainder of the "philosophy." Nonetheless as I observe him, he appears at a relative peace in the world regardless of the crossword from the Seattle Times that seems to stump him to just two completed words. Well, now only three.
In another scene a long line of red peels out through the bus's front window. The darkness of the morning accentuates the dreary mobile lights. They are passed subsequently out the right-side window much like the silhouetted landscape, except at a slower pace. The line disappears momentarily as the bus stops above the freeway. The recalled man in the tan jacket finally gives up on the crossword. He folds the paper up and inserts back in his bag. Once the pack is zippered he slides himself to the window seat from the aisle to make room for would-be passengers embarking. Only two other in fact do with no takers yet. It matters not to him though. With deliberate intention, he fells his head forward and closes his eyes to snooze until a quick thought overtakes his senses. He then begins to root around at the left-inside pocket of his tan leather jacket. The crackling sounds of thick cellophane interrupts the drone of the diesel as he pops a mint in his mouth. With vigor, he pushes it around his mouth as if were a washing machine on the spin cycle. This activity keeps his eyes open at intervals when they keep fluttering closed. Arms crossed, legs bent at a right angle he moves nowhere else but for the before-mentioned.
He disembarks at the transit station. He walks with a briskness in the freezing morning, first north then west. Before disappearing behind another parked bus he waves at a short squat woman in a red p-coat. A brief smile can be discerned flashing on the face before melding into the per diem accompaniment of proletariat symphony. It is an uncanny duality to be sure.

The Avenues Are Clear Despite the Air Stuffed into Them

They all get onto the bus.
Some ask questions such as, "Does this go downtown?"
Some say, "Good morning," or "I'm glad I made it," as if their lives depended on it.
A few of these run to catch the imminent lurching vehicle that could at anytime just pull away from the curb without them. I watch each and every face with discreet sensibility. Most seem focused or preoccupied with the immediate task at hand whatever that may be. There is after all a thick fog that fills in much of the outside space along with its cohort, darkness. Perhaps that is a collective metaphor for some nebulous feeling. I could not say for sure, but the sensation certainly suggests this direction.
As the route continues its onward journey through the neighborhood, the seats fill at an increasing rate. All workers of different sorts unified by the simple need to get from point A to point B.
The cabin is quiet with the exception of the periodic shuffling, random singular conversation, and the occasional motor noise seeping in from the avenues outside. My knees are propped up on the seat in front of me as I take in these minuscule events. It is a two-fold habit of mine. I try to keep still so as not to press the seat-back excessively. A man in a royal blue jacket reading a hardback entitled, "Born to Ruth" sits there. It's bad enough that I cough from time to time.
Something is off about today in spite of the witnessed apparent normalcy. I cannot place it, much like that name of that place I visited at age sixteen when I thought I was something but in fact was not. As I ponder this and unsuccessfully attempt to decipher my caliginous emotion, the bus continues its progress. Straight and true it goes without delay or care to the otherwise. I find I must act as the bus does as is per my own custom with my own "World Interaction." After all if one dispenses with theory and embraces practicality, the conclusion is perception is in fact, reality.