on the 10

it's pissing rain out... when you eventually find the bus stop you're already late for work... it's your first day and you still don't actually know where work is... you never had a great sense of direction but the northside is a total dead loss... the traffic is biblical... you want it to be this evening, you've got something to look forward to... standing on the bus, you really wish you hadn't applied for the job... you make yourself as small as possible to allow a mother and her buggy in to the luggage area near the front of the bus... she doesn't say thank you but her baby's cute... she sounds Russian when she argues on the phone... the bus empties out after a bit and mother and buggy alight... a man in his early sixties takes the backwards-facing seat in the luggage area... you stay standing because the bus driver is gonna tell you where to get off, so you have to stay nearby... the old man is talking to himself... you try not to watch... you fail... he swings from being irritable to agreeing with himself in a "sure that's the way the world is" kinda way... he's not so much speaking as miming and nodding now... you realise he's wet his trousers... he's a big man, and his belly hangs halfway across his crotch, but he's wearing light grey cotton pants, so it's all pretty clear... your sense of gloom is growing by the second... you feel genuinely sorry for the old man... he's a pathetic, broken figure and doesn't seem to know... in fact his only concern is what looks like an inexplicable chalk stain on his right shoulder, which he continuously rubs and dabs at with a wetted forefinger... distracted, you're jerked forward when the bus stops... stumbling, you slightly stub the toe of a relatively large black lady... she loudly curses you in what you presume to be some African dialect or other... you quickly apologise and she snorts and looks away... when she storms off the bus (she was waiting in the aisle) you take a look around at the people that are left... seated nearby and facing you is a man in soiled trousers, brain long rotted by drink... you count one, two, three obvious nationalities... they all look miserable and no-one's talking... welcome to the melting pot... you can't wait to leave.