The Old Man and the Bus

hemingway-pen

6:00 PM UPDATE: I’m good. Sorry, Anonymice. Chicken for Sunday dinner and Domino’s (gift certificate) tomorrow. Sorry, Anonymice. I’ll try to lift your spirits later in the week. Keep checking back in. We love ‘ya. 

3:30 PM  UPDATE: Man, tough crowd today. Dinner tonight is looking less and less likely. The Anonymice will be thrilled. 

The Anonymice have found me after I managed to successfully hide from them during the brief run of the Walton’s Mountain in Echo Park blog.

Who are the Anonymice, you ask? They are two middle-aged women who have been cyberstalking me since 2006. They are both known to me and known to one another and both were real-world friends of mine, close friends, confidantes, you might say, in another time and place. They cloak their online identities behind an anonymous redirect that will not betray their location but they’re dumber than I know they are if they think I don’t know who they are and where they’re broadcasting from.

These two vile humans revel in blog posts concerning any personal or financial misfortune that befalls me; they will, according to my sevarious stat counters, return multiple times, obsessively, throughout the night and day to see if my fate has darkened even more. They feed on whatever small miseries are heaped upon me. A pity they cannot fathom the misery of their own shallow, hateful lives.

Enjoy, ladies, this post is for you.

***

I have two pairs of jeans, the only pants I own in the world. Both were bought at the Salvation Army store in Glendale. They are threadbare and dirt-stained and have holes and tears in the denim and I am embarrassed to sport them in public but they’re all I’ve got.

On the Metro 603 bus this morning to fetch a small carton of milk a young Hispanic woman,, probably 18 or 19 years of age, pointed out an available seat to me on the SRO bus. Since the driver had a lead foot and was speeding up and slowing down without rhyme or reason, the young woman held out her hand, grabbed my arm, and helped me to the seat. I expressed my gratitude effusively and was embarrassed by the fellow passengers who stared at the spectacle of a prematurely aged 54-year-old man with a gray beard and dirty, ragged clothes was helped to his seat.

But the act of kindness was not lost on me.

***

Nothing for dinner tonight but a can of tuna. I’d love a chicken for Sunday dinner. And a bottle of wine. Pretty simple needs but not always simply met. For those who know my Paypal Maginot Line and would care to throw something in the kitty for Sunday dinner and wine I would be forever grateful, For those who don’t know but would like to lend an assist, leave a comment, I’ll get back to you.

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About Rodger Jacobs

Writer

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