Busses and More Busses

To get a new apartment, I had to grab my old receipt. I'm staying with my aunt, and my aunt lives in Old Town and the receipt sits in my dresser drawer in Pilsen. Because he distrusts banks, my landlord (who hates being called my landlord) only takes cash.

The guys at Chase bank love this, they love the absurd wads of bills I have to take out and draw smilies all over the envelop, "Good Luck!!!"

So I get there, puff around the big shell old printer's shop space, see my brephs twirling around under a naked bulb like a boy detective in some noir episode, only I'm not a boy, I'm 27, and too old to be living in heatless and dark spaces, at least if I'm a salary pulling teacher.

After a stout at Skylark and a little grading, it's back north on the Halsted #8. Tonight I'm one of these guys who throws his bike on the front of the bus. Once things start rolling, the seats fill. I'm reading The Sandman comic series. Three yoga women in their thirties are talking about their boyfriends. A man with immaculate hair and nice glasses has it all together. I think about getting my hair under control like that. I feel like the rickety glasses in my coat pocket.

A yoga woman next  to me looks into my comic. I want to go to sleep so bad.