The Fine Art of Bus Riding

  Something about riding the bus, I can't explain it. You just see things from the road that a comfortable train ride can't deliver. The real world. Life. I don't know--are you buying this?
  Speaking of buying--only a loser would buy a bus ticket from Sacramento to Peoria instead of flying like a normal, sane person. But I only had $200 and love the smell of sweaty strangers and bus toilets. Plus I love seeing hundreds of miles of corn fields up close and personal.
  Every stop is an adventure, a feast for the eyes. Speaking of feasts--the smell of Joe's Diner and the delightful heartburn that follows is enough to make the humblest soul pray for their insurance to cover a gastric bypass surgery.
  So I took the bus to Peoria for the reading of Aunt Isabel's will. What did she leave me from her vast fortune? Just a bus ticket to anywhere I want to go.

Fresh Air

  Nora wanted to go for a walk but Elias said no. It was spring, his worst season.
  "Okay if I walk by myself?" she asked, her patience wearing thin.
  "If you don't mind showering and washing your clothes when you get back." Elias said this between puffs on his Albuterol inhaler. "Pollen," he reminded her for the umpteenth time.
  Nora repressed a sigh with great effort and went outside. Spring was in full bloom and she could only watch it from the wrong side of a triple-paned window. She needed some fresh air.
  She took a long walk, knowing Elias would be fuming impatiently for her return. No doubt he would want the air filters changed again.
  Nora thought about her dog Lucky. She missed the black lab terribly, but Elias had made her choose: me or the dog. She wondered sometimes if she had made the right choice.
  A field of Queen Anne's lace seemed to beckon her. Nora felt a twinge of malicious delight as she walked through the waist high weeds, coating herself thoroughly with pollen. Elias probably wouldn't let her step foot in the house. He would want her to strip on the porch.
  Nora rubbed pollen in her hair and laughed. Maybe her sister would let her have Lucky back. She would rent a garden apartment or maybe a small farmhouse. Fresh air filled her lungs as she walked, enjoying the heady smells of spring and the thought of imminent freedom.
 

Cry "Wolf!"

  The alarm was so familiar that Laney knew what to do the instant she heard the metallic click five seconds before the howling began. It was as if the system was clearing its enormous throat in preparation for the hellish serenade that would follow.
  Her roommate Carla swore under her breath when the click sounded. She found her bathrobe and slippers, and was out the door before the fire alarm was full volume.
  Laney grabbed her master keys and followed Carla out to the breezeway. She didn't see many residents coming out of their suites, but she didn't expect to. The hypersensitive new system went off every night, sometimes two or three times a night, but as an RA Laney had to set the example and evacuate the building.
  Jeff, the RA on the other end of the eighth floor, nearly ran Laney down as she reached the stairs. "Key the rooms! Get everyone out!"
  Laney shook her head. "Let them sleep. It's another stupid false alarm."
  Jeff seized Laney's wrist and dragged her back to the breezeway. "Key all the doors! This time it's real! There's a bomb in the building!"

(True story from my adventures as an RA in Sullivan Residence Hall at North Carolina State University, 1985-1988. Go Wolfpack!)