Poncho

As I board my morning bus, it's crowded. I stand in the centre aisle for several minutes, and then a seat opens up when a lady gets up to disembark.

I sit down. My seatmate is an older white man with the tan of a construction worker. He's wearing a Mexican-style poncho under a large leather jacket. His head is slumped forward; he's sleeping. Fit a sombrero on his head and he'd fit the picture of a siesta, except that it's before 8:00 AM.

The bus rumbles on for some time, and we reach downtown. A whole herd of passengers gets off at a major stop at a red light, but Señor Poncho is still sleeping. Suddenly he starts, glances around him, and jumps up. "Excuse me," he blurts, and I quickly slide out of the way as he bolts for the rear exit. But the driver has already closed the door and deactivated whatever switch passengers can use to open it themselves. "Back door please!" Poncho calls out as the bus starts to pull away. The driver either ignores him or doesn't hear him at all.

"Or not," he adds, under his breath, pulling the stop cord and waiting as the bus injects itself another block deeper into downtown.

There's his stop. Not the one he wanted, mind you.