I knew why he was cursing, I was warned.
We chugged onto the freeway,
cars whizzed by, honked,
gave us the finger,
flashed lights and
basically treated the bus,
traveling at top speed 50 mph to their 70 plus,
like an invitation to a personal road rage party.
It was enough to give anyone the right to be creative with profanity. My friend took the nearest exit traveling in the direction of my storage unit. I was swapping out gear and clothes then hopping on another plane.
I had about three hours to catch up on almost a whole year, and then say goodbye again.
I held onto the oh-shit strap as we whirled into an alley, flew down a street, then tucked tightly into another alley. My friend worked the steering wheel and clutch, sailing the bus like a tea cup ride at a county fair. His laughter over the horror displayed on my face was eaten up by the engine noise. Smiling and leaning into the abrupt turns, I held on fiercely, bracing my legs, my thoughts turned to my chauffeur.
The driver, my homeless friend,
a self-educated urban survivalist,
was the only friend
who had time to pick me up.