Sunny, springlike January day, freaks loitering along Kirkwood, Nikki among them. And I, on the other side of the street, kept on going. Nothing to say, no desire to interrupt her afternoon with whatever guy or guys she was with, hurrying to catch the bus home, very much taken with my new wife.
[I’m not making this up. We did have shorter Mercedes buses.]
At the bus stop, an old woman [probably much younger than me as I revisit this 50 years later], her vile mouth in an unending rant about the uselessness of the Kirkland Mall under construction, “What are they going to do with the flowers in winter! The city’s never been in such bad condition, and they’re wasting all their money on this, tearing up a good street. And they want to extend it, can you imagine it all the way to Indiana? If they do that, I’d like to see the mayor shot. I’d shoot him myself.
“Why, that must be the third No. 1 gone by! What number’s that bus? When’s No. 2 going to get here?” Unkempt, ragged woman with a dirty aura, probably has the filthiest house on the block. Her loud words are a malignancy. Her presence, a curse. Poverty, or worse, has taught her nothing but resentment.
Twenty minutes with that woman next to a Black woman who just sat and nodded.
The black woman just smiles and gazes on while the white crone sits by the door and keeps talking at the driver.
Closer to me, another asks, “Betcha can’t guess my age. I’m 51.”
She looks 70.
“How about me? I’m 82.”
She looks it.
“My husband, he’s 44.”
Looks 65, grizzled.
“You say 82, my! I would have said 66.”
“Why thank you. You don’t look 56, either.”
“My, 82? Her hair doesn’t have much gray.”
“I love this air-ee-ah. Such a change from Chicago.”
~*~
Trees at twilight:
~*~
From Spiralbound Hoosier, with commentary from now.
Jnana's Red Barn 