SURFING THE BUSES
Chapter One from The Art of Falling by Johnny Frem
. When I ran into her I was tongue-untied.
. I had bought some pizza while waiting for the bus and was thinking how people in the big city don’t talk to strangers much. I decided I was going to offer my other slice to the first person I saw on the bus. Then there she was. She caught my eye as soon as I got on.
. I told her how I’d been planning to talk to someone, anyone, so I was glad to run into her again.
. And she was glad because now we’d get another chance to give dialogue a try. There it was again. The same thing she had also repeated in a laundromat one day. I knew it had something to do with her being an actor who liked to do improv.
. I sat next to her and she asked where I was going.
. “Just up the hill a ways,” I told her.
. “Really? I live there too.”
. Practically neighbours and we didn’t even know it. She lived a little bit west of Main and I lived a little bit East.
. I said, “Imagine that. We could have known each other all this time?”
. She sparkled. “That’s a good idea. Why don’t we imagine that? Let’s pretend we’ve known each other all this time and we’re heading home from a party.” The actor in her—right off the bat.
. “But aren’t you really heading home from a party.”
. “Well…yes.”
. “Then you’re not pretending.”
. “Well, I’m pretending I’m heading home with you,” she said, and then she turned red like a pomegranate, but just kept on grinning anyway.
. “Well, I wish you weren’t pretending,” I said, which made her blush even more and raised a few eyebrows around us.
. “Well, I…I…I was just trying to do some improv with you.”
. She was beginning to get real flustered and I didn’t want that, so I decided to run with it. “OK,” I said, “so we’re heading home from a party together. Guess it was a pretty good party, since you seem to be all gussied up. What was the occasion?”
. “Thanksgiving,” she blurted.
. “Thanksgiving. Hmmm…and this,” I said, holding up my slice of pizza, “is some of the roast turkey.”
. “No,” she corrected me, “it was roast duck.”
. “Oh, that’s better! Roast duck. Let’s say it’s Duck L’orange. Mmmm. Makes my mouth water.” I raised my eyebrows invitingly. Mr. Swovvy and Duhboner. “I’m sure glad you grabbed some as we were leaving the party.”
. She took a bite. I watched her intently as she licked her fingers. “Mmm. Love that sauce.”
. I offered some pizza to the woman beside us, who pretended she was deaf or I was invisible and buried herself in her book.
. “All right. Looks like there’ll be some duck left over for sandwiches.”
. “But I don’t eat meat.”
. “Heh-heh! Neither do I,” I said, which wasn’t exactly true, because if I could afford it I probably would.
. “Well, let’s suppose that we couldn’t avoid it…you know, didn’t want to offend the host,” she said, glancing back at the other passengers.
. “Or maybe we just couldn’t resist when they pulled the duck out of the oven. We gave in to that marvellous aroma, had to have some,” I whispered.
. “Hadn’t had any in a long time,” she whispered right back.
. “Right,” I smirked. “We wanted it desperately.”
. I could see her beginning to turn red again, but she just kept going. “Madly…couldn’t get enough of that duck.”
. “Dripping with orange sauce,“ I said, nearly breaking up. “We were ravenous.”
. The woman beside us let out a huge sigh and stared out the window. I moved over closer. The bus waited for a red light at Twenty-Eighth.
. “So it’s your turn…that party was pretty wild.”
. She took her turn and I added more to a crazy story about two vegetarians gone mad, sinning, breaking their meatless vows at a Thanksgiving feast. French bread fresh from the oven slathered with butter. Sticky glazed carrots. Creamed onions. Mashed potatoes and gravy.
. “Gravy? God how I miss gravy,” she said.
. Incredible. It came from nowhere and we kept it up all the way to the end of the bus line, which says a lot about us being horny. Or lonely at least.
. I’m still shaking my head. Inventing erotica on the bus with a woman I hardly knew? Mind you, the bus was getting empty. We went past my stop and I didn’t even think about getting off. And I was sure she’d done the same thing.
. Our food orgy ended as we crossed 49th with a frenzy of wild rice being thrown around the room and then the image of a hand tightening around a chunk of home-made bread, clenching and then relaxing.
. “…And the bread drops to the floor,” she said.
. We stared at each other for a long time then.
. Finally I said, “Wow!” and asked what she did for desert?
. “Berries and whipped cream,” she said, “but let’s save desert for later. Would you like more wine?”
. The trolley-bus slowed as the driver gave us a dirty look over his shoulder.
. She sent him back a smile. “It’s not real; we’re just pretending.”
. “So where are we now?”
. “You tell me,” she said.
. “Well, let’s suppose…let’s suppose we’re eating in bed.”
. I caught her off-guard with that and she squirmed a little. “Now, wait a minute.”
. She pretended to be offended, which was completely preposterous, considering how far we’d already gone. “Okay,” she decided to go for it. “It’s a water-bed with a canopy. It has satin sheets and a down-filled duvet…and we’re naked.”
. Now I was the one squirming.
. “Well okay,” she said, “we don’t have to be like, totally naked.”
. “-oh, I don’t mind…no, I mean…but so…uhh…so, we must be very good friends,” I said. “Or lovers.”
. “Lovers.” There was a long break in the story as we got lost in each others’ eyes.