2001-12-18 - 12:11 a.m.

This thing is getting outta control. E. discovered the address to this narrative today. I don't think that I've said anything about her that could get her that upset (I don't really check back), but now I can't ever say anything that would upset her.

Oops. Again, it's not like there's anything in here of which I am particularly proud.

I have plenty of stores. Wanna hear one?

I used to live in Somerville. To get into the city, I'd have to take one of two buses (the 89 or the 101--one or the other would come every half hour) to Sullivan Square, and then the Orange Line from there.

One day, I left for work a little early. When I got to Sullivan, I saw that I had missed the train. I had some spare time, so rather than enter the train station and wait for the next one, I decided to walk around the rest of the station and look around. I wanted to find out if there were any wacky busses that I could take on a weekend so that I could explore a new neighborhood (there were so few left that hadn't been checked off the list).

I walked down a flight of stairs to the alternate bus depot. There was a 92 bus boarding, and it went to State Street, which was the Orange Line station by my work.

I had nothing to lose, so I got on.

The bus went through Charlestown. Charlestown is kinda weird. It basically consists of two main drags. There are rich people living there, and some very nice houses. There are also projects, one strip mall, some old brick buildings, and there's even a community theatre housed in a retrofitted fire station. Two busses run down the two main drags, which encompass the town like parenthesis--the 92 and the 93. The drags are virtually identical.

It was my first time on the bus and I was very excited. I had a book on my lap, and I was pretending to read it, meanwhile craning my neck like a Japanese tourist.

The bus passed through Charlestown and into the North End. From there, it turned onto Congress Street by Haymarket Station, heading towards State.

I wasn't quite sure where the bus stop was, and I was a little afraid that I'd end up getting off a stop too late, mysteriously whisked away to some random place with no stops in between. I knew better, but you never know.

When the bus started heading towards my destination, I panicked and stood up prematurely. I hit the stop request tape. The bus hit a rare traffic-free spot and then sped down Congress.

For whatever reason, the driver had to jam on the breaks. The aisle was empty, and I awkwardly flew forward, saving myself by grabbing the overhead pole before I ran out of bus.

It was very embarrassing, and I really wanted off. We were at a corner, it was right by where I wanted to depart, and I started walking down the bus steps facing a closed door, hoping that we were at my stop.

It wasn't. The stop was after the intersection. Looking down, I noticed a dirty old soccer ball. Realizing that when we did reach my stop, the doors would open and the soccer ball would be lost, I picked up the ball and asked the driver if it was his.

He said no.

The light turned green, and I couldn't wait to get off the bus. I had made a spectacle of myself. I jumped off the bus when the doors opened.

The doors closed.

I realized that I was still holding that dirty soccer ball.

Yay, soccer ball!, I thought. It had been years since I had last held one. It made me feel free.

There I was, right at the heart of Boston's Financial district, Suits a go-go, and me dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, ready to bring a friggin' random and very dirty soccer ball to my corporate supervisor job.

Fuck the Suits, I thought. I haven't yet punched in. I'm not a representative of my company. In about five minutes, those assholes have me for the next eight (plus) hours. But not now.

And so I started to play. I threw the soccer ball in the air, and I caught it. I laughed. I spun it on my finger like a motherfuckin' Harlem Globetrotter. I felt so alive. I really did. I bounced that fucking soccer ball against Boston's historic Old State House, and caught it yet again as Suits and tourists looked on.

Also looking on was a little Hispanic kid I hadn't noticed from that bus. He looked so sad. Not angry.

I will never forget how he looked. It was obvious that he wasn't going to get another soccer ball any time soon. He had probably brought one of his favorite toys with him. Worn out, dirty, and full of memories.

When that bus came to a quick stop, Physics grabbed that ball out of his tiny hands and bowled it down the aisle.

I picked it up, and it was my favorite toy for about ten seconds.

Get used to it, kid.

As the doors closed and the bus crawled away, I watched his eyes and he watched mine. Locked. I hope the emotion on my face was expressive as his.

I hope my face said I am so sorry.