The slightly older than middle aged man wears his sunglasses at the bus stop and squints towards the sun waiting for his number to come up. The ground vibrates, he looks up, squints to make sure he has the right number, you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong bus, and he steps on. Why doesn’t the bus have seat belts he wonders, as it rumbles and bumps over pot holes and dips on the boulevard. He puts his face to the plexiglas and looks for his stop, stop 47, the vibration of the bus always helps him darken reality and slide off to somewhere else, to a time where there was only two bus lines and the drivers were always the same, he tries to fight his instincts by counting the various stops, 40, 42, but he loses somewhere around stop 44. The slightly older than middle aged man wakes up at stop 58, his swollen eyes widen and he yells at the bus driver, “I told you I was stop 47.† Through the rear view mirror the slightly older than middle aged man sees the bus driver rolling her eyes at him and shrugging her shoulders. “People just don’t give a damn anymore,” he says just loud enough for her to hear. “Maybe you should get a car old man,” jokingly says a passenger across from him, a boy with brown eyes and a shaved head. He scowls and steps off the bus; he removes his sunglasses, and crosses the street, to catch the bus. Back to the stop that he missed.