Waiting for the 128 on the Malahide Road is an emotional experience. It's usually raining. It's a long road and a dim view, brightened only by the snaking string of ruby taillights that stretches from Amiens St. to Drogheda. On dark and dry evenings, their red wink makes me think of Christmas. On miserable wet ones, I focus on the glare of the white lights speeding towards the city, counting the buses I could get to Talbot St. and holding out hope for the 128. If this isn't it, I'll get the next one. The next one shimmers into view as the last one scutters out of it, 14ft tall and belching feathers. I am an eternal optimist. I usually get a soaking.
I sit downstairs in the evenings. People talk more. Used to be that the upper saloon was the place for cowboys, but it seems nowadays they're not troubled to mount the stairs. They lurch and mumble in their seats, all the way to Connolly. Never the same fella twice. I like to think there's a pub on Talbot St. that sucks them in and swallows.
There's only few of us left, after the station. People board on the south quays, avoiding the sticky jam on the Talbot Memorial Bridge. You'd be quicker walkin'. A familiar face boards the bus each evening at Tara St. It soothes me to see him, as it does to see the shrieking schoolgirls on the morning route. I know I've made the right bus. He always stands for a moment, swaying, like a drunkard deciding who to dance with. He always settles for the foldaway seat in the wheelchair space and sits shuffling his sheaf of notes. The pages look busy with numbers and graphs. He looks like a man who likes to look busy himself. This evening, he was usurped by a buggy. Spoilt for seats, he stood.
At College Green, three women boarded the bus. Each of them in turn searched her bag for scraps of change. I sat smug, with my 10 Journey Travel 90 ticket. I had to write ten journey travel ninety ticket on a post-it and stick it to the inside of my wallet before I went to the shop to ask for one. The 128 shot past as I scuttled back to the bus stop. Defeated, I used change for the morning commute, took the time to read the terms and conditions and then flashed it tentatively at the ticket reader that evening. It beeped. I feigned nonchalance and thought thank fuck.
Two stops from home this evening, a small man boarded the bus. He boards that bus most evenings. I love the elegance with which he hooshes himself up onto the seats, which are waist-high for him. He sits back into it and his legs stick straight out in front of him. A leggy blonde wafted through the door after him, trailing disdain and stale cigarette smoke. Between them they remind me of a walk to school one winter, back when I was 17. I used to spark up a cigarette halfway across the commo in Clondalkin and finish it before the school gates came into view. I didn't like to smoke in school. I thought it looked cheap. I passed a man on my walk one morning, a little green-toothed oulfella with a cackle on him who told me that cigarettes would stunt my growth. I laughed. I stood a foot taller than him, clear-skinned and prettier than I knew.
I sit downstairs in the evenings. People talk more. Used to be that the upper saloon was the place for cowboys, but it seems nowadays they're not troubled to mount the stairs. They lurch and mumble in their seats, all the way to Connolly. Never the same fella twice. I like to think there's a pub on Talbot St. that sucks them in and swallows.
There's only few of us left, after the station. People board on the south quays, avoiding the sticky jam on the Talbot Memorial Bridge. You'd be quicker walkin'. A familiar face boards the bus each evening at Tara St. It soothes me to see him, as it does to see the shrieking schoolgirls on the morning route. I know I've made the right bus. He always stands for a moment, swaying, like a drunkard deciding who to dance with. He always settles for the foldaway seat in the wheelchair space and sits shuffling his sheaf of notes. The pages look busy with numbers and graphs. He looks like a man who likes to look busy himself. This evening, he was usurped by a buggy. Spoilt for seats, he stood.
At College Green, three women boarded the bus. Each of them in turn searched her bag for scraps of change. I sat smug, with my 10 Journey Travel 90 ticket. I had to write ten journey travel ninety ticket on a post-it and stick it to the inside of my wallet before I went to the shop to ask for one. The 128 shot past as I scuttled back to the bus stop. Defeated, I used change for the morning commute, took the time to read the terms and conditions and then flashed it tentatively at the ticket reader that evening. It beeped. I feigned nonchalance and thought thank fuck.
Two stops from home this evening, a small man boarded the bus. He boards that bus most evenings. I love the elegance with which he hooshes himself up onto the seats, which are waist-high for him. He sits back into it and his legs stick straight out in front of him. A leggy blonde wafted through the door after him, trailing disdain and stale cigarette smoke. Between them they remind me of a walk to school one winter, back when I was 17. I used to spark up a cigarette halfway across the commo in Clondalkin and finish it before the school gates came into view. I didn't like to smoke in school. I thought it looked cheap. I passed a man on my walk one morning, a little green-toothed oulfella with a cackle on him who told me that cigarettes would stunt my growth. I laughed. I stood a foot taller than him, clear-skinned and prettier than I knew.
