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“No,” I said. “No, no, no, no. No. No.”
“It’s not a big deal,” she said. “Really.”
“My wife doesn’t really want to take the bus.” He turned to me with a
smirk. “Not so regular, are you?”
“I have cash,” I said. “But no quarters. I’m going to overpay for you.
You’re welcome.”
“You sure?” Loranda asked. “I think he’s good for it.”
“I’m sure.” I nudged my husband toward the end of the block. “We’ll
see you later.”
“Tomorrow morning!” Logan cried.
Loranda waved and got in the car.
The crowd had thinned. Across the street, a group of men laughed
loudly, and in front of us, three young women belted out the refrain of “On
My Own.”
“The songs are catchy,” Logan said.
“They sure are. So.” We stopped at the corner with the singers, waiting
for the light. “Which bus?”
“Which…” He looked around and didn’t find a sign that said “Logan’s
House” or “Hancock Park,” so he pointed at a bus rocking down Grand
Street. “What about that one?”
“You’re going to Long Beach? I guess that could be fun.”
He turned to where Loranda had been parked, but she was long gone.
The light changed.
“Poor satellite,” I said, hooking my arm through his. “Come on.”
I led him across the street, following the three women to the westflowing
side, who had moved on to “I Dreamed a Dream,” and stopped
under the bus awning.
“Just because I don’t know which bus to get on in a strange
neighborhood doesn’t mean anything.”
“Okay,” I stopped under the bus awning with the singing trio as a bus
pulled up, brakes squeaking. “What’s the nearest bus to your place?”
The doors opened with a hiss and a clap. We lined up behind the trio
and I got out my wallet.
“The orange one.”
“They’re all orange. And I’ll end your suffering now.” I got up on tiptoe
so I could whisper, “There are no busses to Hancock Park.” I got up on the
first step and looked down at him. He didn’t know where he was going or