by Bruce A. Smith

Wednesday, about 6 pm; September 5, 2012

 The cutest girl on the bus got on at about 38^th St.  She had lots of cleavage, beach-blonde hair, and was about 25 or so.  I starred.

 So did all the other guys.  She looked non-plussed.

 Then, a flat-chested, somewhat heavy-but-not-too fat girl about 18 or 19 got on right behind her, carrying a huge day pack.  The second woman had lots of earrings stuck on her face and looked like a white-Goth-chick-without-any-black-clothing; striking.

 The cute one sat down in the last available seat on the crowded commuter bus, and the second woman walked up to her and pressed herself into the face and torso of the cute one, who embraced her.

 My Gawd, they’re lovers!  Wow – Lesbians! I said to myself.

 They continued to physically express themselves, but in tasteful, publicly-appropriate ways.  I noticed the Goth Girl had two huge purple marks on her neck.

 She’s got hickies! I said to myself.

 And so it goes: another two gals looking for love on the #1 Bus.

 The #1 leaves the Walmart in Spanaway every 20 minutes – at :08, :28; and :48 on the hour and is the main hauler of humanity into Tacoma.  The Walmart is the southern terminus of the #1, which is a local and goes into downtown Tacoma along Pac Ave.  Then it heads west to the near-suburbs of western Tacoma, terminating at Tacoma Community College, or “TCC,” as everyone on the #1 calls it.

 As the #1 rolls down Pacific Avenue it passes north through Spanaway, then up to Parkland and through the central part of East Tacoma, past Foxx’s and lots of bodegas.  Then it heads down the big hill by the Stanley and Seaforts sign so clearly seen from the I-5.

 In a swoosh, Pac Ave drops down that hillside, giving a splendid view of the harbor and the T-Dome, and enters the central business district of Tacoma.  There, it goes past the Old Union Station and now the federal Court House, which is the place where I was granted a bankruptcy in 1993.

 After cruising through the downtown business center, the #1 climbs up the slope heading towards the Hilltop area, chugging through the theater district.  Along 9^th St it passes the Pantages and Rialto theaters, my old bailiwicks when I was a union stagehand.

 At Tacoma Ave, by the jail, county court house and McDonalds, the #1 dog-legs north for a few blocks to 6^th Street, where it turns west just by the Grand Cinema, which has all the cool movies.  I go there at least once a month.

 The #1 proceeds down 6^th to the Hippie Town of west-central Tacoma, past my new vegan home of the “Gateways to India” restaurant, and my soon-to-be dance home of Studio 36, where I can get weekly dance lessons for $36 per month; my lessons are slated for Thursdays at 6 pm when I can rustle-up the money.

 The #1 keeps going on 6^th, past the Tacoma Food Cooperative and Jazzbones, a jazz and reggae-rock emporium.  I walked around this neighborhood last weekend to catch the vibe and to see if I wanted to move there.

 I walked into the Coop and saw a stout black woman whom I had sat behind on the #1 bus earlier as I headed inbound.  I introduced myself, but she never fully acknowledged that she was the same woman on my bus, nor did she explain how she got to the Tacoma Cooperative when she had gotten off the #1 at 56^th St in East Tacoma.

 Plus, she was at the coop with another overweight woman – a white gal who also had a car – and I saw them drive away together down 6^th St as I was walking around.

 After HippieTown, the #1 keeps going for a few more miles and terminates at TCC, out by Cheney Stadium.

 As I write this I’m sitting in my garden and feeling very southern and vegan.

 I scalloped-out a new place in my vegetable patch for my chair and little table, so I can better see the sunset and soak-in the garden view.  I only moved my chair about four feet, but it feels like half-a-mile worth of difference in terms of feel and vista.  Now, I’m no longer starring at the trunk of my apricot tree, but rather I have the whole spread of my septic drain-field and dozens of potatoes plants.

 It’s hot – 85 degrees at least and maybe 90 – which I find delightful as I still have the gentle shade of the apricot.  I’m sippin’ tequila and eating “reduced fat” Triscuits and hummus, and I feel no compunction to do anything purposeful or productive – besides I had used my shovel and rake to move a bit of dirt for my new garden perch, so that’s enough work for one day.

 So, I’m sippin’ booze and waiting and watching the sun go down, writing a narrative.  It feels so indolent and Faulkner.  Boredom and ennui melt off of me as I write and drink – first on a yellow pad in the garden setting and now at the pc.

 Images of the Big Easy and the movie “Love Song for Bobby Long” waft through my mind’s eye.

 Earlier in the day, I had gone to my emergency dental clinic in Lakewood to get my bothersome teeth yanked out.  I’ve surrendered my effort to figure out what to do to save the teeth with root canals and crowns, and my efforts to heal them in consciousness have not yet born fruit.  At two-grand per tooth it’s way beyond my financial means.  Extraction seems to be my only option.

 Since I was a “walk-in” emergency patient, I had to arrive at the clinic by 9 am – so I was exhausted and had a three-hour nap once I got back home.

 Plus, my migraines have kicked back-in this week, and that made my mind pretty mushy all day long.  The dentist opted not to yank anything today, saying he “wasn’t prepared to do an extraction,” and that triggered more angst in me.  He re-scheduled me for next Thursday.  Ug; another week of dental pain.  Fortunately, I have five tabs left of Tylenol 3, plus a bunch of Vicodin and oxycontin left over from another extraction a year ago.

 Welcome to American healthcare!  It makes me so angry that there aren’t any other options for a guy like me.  Hey, Joseph Campbell – I followed my bliss – now what?  I’m broke and in pain, sir.

 By the way:  today is the 47^th straight day without rain in the Pacific Northwest.  Yeah!  I’m loving it and I don’t want to see rain until Thanksgiving.

 But the passivity and pain are also a catalyst for me to become the God I am fully realized.  Certainly my circumstances compel me to manifest all that I have learned in the past twenty-two years at Ramtha’s school, to apply my mind’s greater capabilities.  I have been taught about mind-as-matter, and now, it’s time to get ‘er done.  I see myself healed.  Absolutely and totally.  To Life!