On the eve of Christmas Eve, the day after the party, I make the store over nine hundred dollars. It’s a late shift. I don’t normally work the late shift. 10:30 comes quick. I don’t normally close. It’s not normally my responsibility. I have to rush to get everything done. Lights off, switches switched, trash taken out, door locked, gate closed, music off, cash counted, payed out.
Musette told me to take the subway home. L to the G. Still in love with the underground, but the underground has a problem. No G to Church. You’ve got to take a shuttle, buddy. Here’s a ticket. Back upstairs.
And those bus drivers. They truly are heroes. I’m too far from home to walk. I have no choice. The New York streets are brutal. Wrangling that thing around corners, the multi-channel intersections. He’s talking to himself, mumbling and grumbling. Announcements piping through the overhead speakers, alerting us a reminder that it is a felony to attack a public servant. That’s what bus drivers are, right? Servants to the cause. Servants to the public. Helping us get where we need to go when our faithful underground sandworms are feeling sick. Possible shooter. Another stabber. Someone sick. New York contagion working on containment. Public servants. Going in in their hazmat suits. Their assault rifles. Their badges of shining armor.
I feel you guys. But at least you’re getting a paycheck. One of these days maybe. Ah, fuck it. What would I do without the work anyways? Ol’ Ulric. The morning ten. The tunnel under construction. The mumbler grumbler. Giving us all butterflies in our tummies. We public servants, keeping society afloat.