Since I’m riding the bus these days, I figure I might as well share some of the interesting people I meet along the way. I try not to judge—just observe through my little lens into the random, unfolding lives of strangers. Plus, let’s be honest—I have to write about something, so why not launch a new series: The Bus Stops Here?
_______________________________
I had settled onto the bench with no idea when the next bus might show up. There's a universal look at every stop: a silent longing in the eyes of riders, gazing left down the road in hopeful anticipation. When someone first arrives, they instinctively glance right, just to be sure they didn’t miss it. Buses run on their own logic—sometimes early, sometimes late. You just learn to wait.
Thankfully, the weather had cooled off a bit—meaning it had dropped into the 100s. Odd as it sounds, after surviving July in Las Vegas, it actually felt nice.
He was standing when I sat down, staring down the road. Dark-skinned with long black hair pulled into a bun, his arms were covered in tribal tattoos. He looked Hawaiian. Turned out, he was—sort of. His father was Black, his mother brunette, and his grandmother a redhead. “That’s how I got the good hair,” he explained with a little pride.
His name was Ritchie. He’d moved to Vegas from Oklahoma to be near his mom, but a DUI had stripped him of his license almost three years ago. He was hopeful—he thought he’d be eligible to get it back soon. Until then, it was the bus.
That day, he’d just come from the library where he’d been researching trade schools in Texas. He wanted to learn pipe inspection. Welding excited him. Especially underwater welding.
But he couldn’t sit still. He kept pacing. He hadn’t made it to the smoke shop yet, and the folded five-dollar bill in his pocket was calling his name. He told me that as long as he bought the lowest strength Spice, he wouldn’t get addicted.
He said this while visibly twitching from craving. The irony didn’t seem to land for him.
On his leg was a scar I couldn’t ignore—deep and jagged, shaped like bite marks, with chunks of flesh missing. I had to ask.
He told me the story like it was yesterday. It was a Saturday morning. He was deep in a drug-induced sleep, recovering from a long week. A knock at the door yanked him out of it. The bus to work took two hours each way, so his 8-hour shift turned into 12-hour days. Weekends were sacred.
He jumped up, opened the door half-asleep, and was greeted by two people campaigning for Obama just before the election.
“Dude, I don’t have time for this!” he said, slamming the door. He stormed back upstairs, furious—his only day to sleep in, ruined.
By the time he got to his room, his anger had spiraled. He lashed out and kicked the window on instinct. The glass shattered—and a sharp edge sliced into his leg, deep. Blood began pulsing out in rhythm.
He was wearing nothing but boxers. Without thinking, he yanked them off to try to stop the bleeding and stumbled down the stairs, completely naked, screaming for help. A neighbor rushed to his aid. He made it to the hospital in time.
“I found out later I coulda sued them for malpractice,” Ritchie said, pointing to the scar. “But I missed the deadline. You only got a year. It happened last August 12th. Too late now. Coulda got a lotta money.”
Now he was here, trying to start over—but struggling. He said he hadn’t made many friends in Vegas. He didn’t know anyone. He had six Facebook friends, but he only recognized two of them.
The bus finally pulled up. I got on first. Ritchie followed—and sat right next to me.
No comments:
Post a Comment