The following is an extract from the book by Josh Jones and Benny Jones titled, Something to read while the women of this world pass you by. The book is available to roder here: https://www.createspace.com/3457354
I was stuck, trapped even. The rain hit down hard on the faded yellow bus shelter. My only response was to swear continually under my breath. Why was I even in this abominable situation? Last night I was asked if I wanted to go to a house party by a friend of a friend and like a fool I said ‘yes.’ Well, my exact words were, ‘My soul is bare and I’ll see you there.’ I thought it was, well, cool and clever. The friend of a friend did not. I should have smelt a rat but I did not. I slumped in the passenger seat of an unfamiliar car as we headed toward bad territory. The suburbs. At the party I drank the place dry in a matter of seconds then moodily went to sleep in the bath. Now I was stuck in suburbia waiting on some freaking bus to return me to civilization.
I don’t want to seem prejudiced, but the suburbs of this city, every city really, are nothing but black chimneys full of black soot. Ever since I escaped the grotesque mansion that was my parents’ house, I’ve been determined to never live more than a ten minute drive from the city and a ten minute walk from the bar. It would appear I need to catch two buses and wait about an hour and a half to get back to my apartment. That, surely that, is bad enough without the daft bus being late as well. The rain acted as a prison door, trapping me inside the bus shelter with nothing to do but mutter and curse the bleakness that is suburbia.
I was not alone, however. Next to me stood a middle aged woman. Her short skirt and still fit body fascinated me as I waited impatiently. I was getting considerably wet, seated on my bench, due to the vicious angle that the rain did fall. The lady, however, was slightly more concerned with staying dry and stood on the bench. The bus really had decided to take its sweet time and in the silence of the wait my hipflask was calling to me. As I reached down into my pocket I noticed I had two sheets of folded paper. In my boredom I pulled them out and examined them. They were nothing of interest, an overdue notice for my electricity and my phone bill. They did give me an idea, though.
‘Excuse me my dear,’ I leaned up and addressed my co-prisoner.
‘Might you have a pen you could give me?’
‘Do you mean lend you?’ she smiled whilst looking through her handbag.
‘No,’ I smiled back whilst taking the pen from her outstretched hand.
I turned the bills over, rested them against my hipflask and began to write.
The Bus Shelter
Alas they were gone and here I must remain, a yellow bus shelter, my prison. Oh for the joyous times my friends were having. They were wandering free, I was certain, through the city like happy creatures. They had no cares. The streets were alive and I was in a cemetery. I, Josh Jones, your humble narrator, sat trapped in a bus shelter. Trapped by distance and trapped by rain. My only companion was a middle-aged woman in a hip-hugging grey skirt and matching jacket. Her jet black hair was pulled firmly back as was the skin around her eyes (though I suspect that second part was not natural). We sat together waiting for a bus which was determined, so it seemed, to never arrive. I sat on the bench watching the rain slowly drench my legs. My companion stood on the bench next to me in an effort to stay dry.
I had no intention of staying dry. I pulled the hipflask from my pocket and began to drink. Again and again and again. I only paused to take breaths. Down the hatch with you, my silky friend. I refer to this only in a cheap attempt to defend my actions, to hide them under the cover of drunkenness (how ironic as I hope these next words, well all my words, will one day be published). Truth be told, I was rather sober at the time.
I kept nipping at my flask and with each nip I would jerk my head back and catch a slight glimpse at this mature lady’s legs. And with each look I was more and more convinced that she wanted me to look further up her leg. So I began to rock from side to side, slightly at first then more so. There I was rocking to the side every time I took a nip from my flask which was just about every second. The lady, in all her charm and style and grace seemed not to notice. She was far too concerned with the rain and the wind and the bus that would not come. This pattern continued with great success as I saw her pale blue panties up there in the delicious sky. So I rocked and nipped and rocked and looked and was well satisfied until the sky caved in on me. Or to put it more succinctly, she jumped down from the bench just as I had rocked in her direction leaving my face next to her leg and under her skirt.
She screamed and called me all the things a lady should call a man like me. My response was simply to put on my sunglasses despite the fact that it was a dark, rain filled day and ignored her complaints. But after some time the lady got fed up by the lack of attention she was getting. She began to hit me with her hand bag, several times over my head. There is only so much a man can stand being violated like that. After some time of being hit with the handbag I jumped to my feet. I gave the lady a sharp push and she fell back on her arse, landing in a considerable and muddy puddle. I decided to take my leave and began to walk in the rain.
‘This daft town,’ I mused, ‘and this daft life.’
What is this world where humans, so intelligent, so empowered, decide to spend the majority of their lives slaving away at unnecessary work? When I was a younger man I lived with a girl. Not for long. My inability to stay committed ended that relationship within months. But even when we were together, I would only ever see her at nights or during weekends. She worked in accounting. She decided crunching numbers all day to get some money was a better way to spend her life than actually living it poor. ‘The fool,’ I thought. And at that moment I hated her. I hated all the corporate scum wasting away in their suits and fancy cars and I despised the working class slaves who do their bidding.
Well that wasn’t really the end. It was the end of space on the second sheet of paper. ‘Bah, this story is stupid anyway,’ I thought to myself. The last bit wasn’t even made up. The part about my ex-girlfriend was all quite true. I looked up and saw a shape in the distance. The bus was finally coming. As it approached I crumpled the papers and threw them angrily into a considerable and muddy puddle. Had I thought for a minute it would have occurred to me there was important information on those sheets. Not the writing but the bills. I wasn’t thinking, however, I was expressing a raw emotion. Frustration. I threw the pen as well with equal fury. The woman gave me an annoyed look.
‘You might have given the pen back if you didn’t want it,’ she bluntly stated.
‘Consider yourself lucky madam. If I were Josh Jones that would be your arse rather than your pen in the puddle.’
‘Excuse me!’ she angrily replied.
‘Nothing, just nothing.’
I followed the lady onto the bus, which manifested itself like some sacred apparition, and was shocked when the bus driver asked me for $2.80. I explained that I had no money but, seeing the bus was almost empty, perhaps he could be charitable. He could not.
‘Pardon me dear,’ I once again spoke to the mature woman who had taken a seat near the front.
‘Could I intrude on your generosity again for $2.80?’
A wicked smile came over her face.
‘I’ll give you $2.80 if I can borrow a pen.’
I was defeated.
‘One second please,’ I addressed the bus driver.
The woman rose and paid my fare whilst I returned to the rain and placed my hand, half my arm really, in the considerable and muddy puddle. I fished around for a few seconds before retrieving her pen from the slime. I jumped on the bus again and handed it to her. She smiled and wiped the pen clean on my sleeve. Head lowered I made my way to the back of the bus and took a seat. This was no way to treat a great writer.