TRANDLE

She exists in a world you have trouble comprehending. Her body is hijacked by foreign substance given to her by alien invaders who presumably control her thoughts and actions via remote, causing her form to twist and finally congeal until her spine has locked and granted limited motion to her limbs and neck. 

Her assigned post is the bus stop on 32nd street just south of Thomas. Here she parades back and forth, engaging herself in conversation while flagging oncoming traffic with her left hand and dangling a plastic shopping bag knotted at the handles from her right. The contents of the bag are not entirely known, though you suspect that they could involve anything from an old t-shirt she found floating in a canal to a severed human hand. You’re comfortable not knowing for sure what they are.

She is both disgusted and stimulated by her surroundings. Infuriated and amused. She’s planning something. She’s looking for a target or an accomplice. She’ll take whatever she can get. And she spots you across the street.

“HAY”, she yells. There’s an “A” in that “HAY”, and you were able to hear it. She’s dropped her bag of whatever-the-hell-it-was and is now fighting traffic just to get to you.  She’s decided you have something that belongs to her, whether it’s your time, money or an Ipod she can pawn for a couple of bucks. She is utterly convinced that it is hers. She just has to convince you of it as well. She’ll take it anyway. 

She maneuvers her way toward you, swatting at cars and batting them away like flies, and you’re beginning to get a better look at her. She’s missing front teeth. Her skin looks as though she cut it off of an old leather couch and soaked it in antifreeze before stitching it to her body. She isn’t ashamed of her appearance. Her shortcomings are worn like badges of honor. You find this admirable, to some extent. She obviously did her hair and makeup before she left the house, or hole, or wherever-the-hell she lives. She cares enough to continue living the lie. 

You despise her. The second her foot catches the sidewalk and invades your personal space, you’re going to push her right back into the street and let the traffic condemn her. Behold the Great Red Dragon. Her face repulses you. Is that a smile or a grimace? You don’t care. She wants what rightfully belongs to you, and you’re not going to let her have it. You’ll give her the opposite of what she asks for, even if all she wants is a smile. But she wants more than that. She wants your phone, your laptop, the seventeen bucks in your wallet, the free movie pass. She’ll take it all by force if she has to. You’ll fight it. You begin to imagine scenarios in your head that all end very badly for her. They’re brutal to the point that they border on pornographic. You’re going to be exceedingly and unapologetically cruel to her. You’ve been in a bad mood all day. She’s the blessing in disguise you’ve been hoping for. Her face is opportunity. Your canvas. 

Her left foot drops. She’s in front of you. She excuses herself from the conversation she’s having in her own head (out loud, of course), and you’re about to find out exactly what it is that she wants. You ball your fists and clench your jaw. You can feel the bad teeth in back of your mouth sending new and fascinating pains through their nerves to the top of your head. You don’t care. You’re ready for it. And here it comes:

“Scewz me hun, yew got the time? I been waitin’ fer that bus three hours”.

You exhale. “Nope”.

“Mkay, thanks hun!”

She turns and swats her way back to the bus stop. You pull your phone from your pocket, glance at it and smile as you continue toward your destination.

It’s 6:35.