written by Joe Russo

It's just a normal Tuesday, and I'm going to work. It's cold at the bus stop, or maybe it's just me. Regardless, I'm freezing. My heavy coat isn't heavy enough, and I'm holding myself close and pacing. Someone once told me that if you're cold you should keep moving, because it keeps your body working. I think it's more to keep you distracted, because if you're moving around, you're thinking more about how difficult it is to move than you are about how cold it's become. Whatever, it's not working. I'm cold and I'm miserable, I'm tired and I'm out of it. In the last five days, I've gotten less than 10 hours of sleep, and I'm having a hard time keeping my thoughts straight.

This is a normal Tuesday. Or it would've been, if Monday hadn't've been so fucked.

But I don't really want to think about Monday. I'll have the rest of my life for that. Instead I'm pacing and I'm trying to keep my head on straight. The bus isn't here, but then the bus isn't due yet. I'm running early because I skipped breakfast. I skipped breakfast so that I wouldn't be late.

Briefly, I wonder why I stopped smoking, as today seems like a good day for it. When I remember my reasoning, I swear. She wouldn't have approved of that kind of language. Not that she would have gotten mad. No, she would've just shook her head in that way that makes it seem like any fault of mine is a fault of hers first. She would've then smiled, and that smile would hurt worse than a thousand words, and I would hasten to apologize, for fear of displeasing her further.

She was always too frail.

I sigh and step into the street, checking to see if the bus is nearing the curve. In reality I know it's at least ten minutes off, but I'm impatient to get to work, even while I know I don't want to go. I idly wonder if the bus will come late, and make me late. Then I idly wonder if it matters.

Fuck I need a cigarette.

It's a normal Tuesday, which means, like every normal weekday, the lady with the make-up mask comes trotting across the street, running as though she's missed going to the bus even though it's still absent. She has a large bosom which is covered by her pink obnoxious sweater, and not for the first time I think to myself that it looks remarkably like what a gutted Muppet would look like, if someone then turned it inside out. Pink fur spills out of the cuffs and neckline, and a carefully trimmed line of it runs the voluptuous gambit from her neck to her waist.

She skitters across the street, and arrives at the bus stop with a cheery smile. "Hi Patrick!" She sings in her almost melodious voice. I half nod and turn away. I haven't had much conversation in the last five days, and I don't feel like starting now. Muppet lady either pretends not to notice, or genuinely doesn't recognize the subtext. She chortles and says, "I missed you yesterday!"

Yesterday. Yesterday wasn't a normal day. Not for me.

I look at her briefly and shrug. I don't make eye contact.

"It was fortunate you weren't there." She says, as if we were talking, as if I had said, "Please, Muppet-Lady, tell me about the bus ride. Did I miss anything? Did anything exciting happen? What about the old guy? Did he finally die? I know he's close! Healthier people than him die all the time! Tell me Muppet-Lady! Tell me please!"

"Oh?" I say instead. I'm not even sure why.

"The bus broke down. We had to wait for the next one to come."

"Oh." I say again, turning away.

"So where were you?"

I let the question hang, and instead I step out into the road. In the distance, about a half-mile off, I can see the bus slowly approaching. This time of morning, every single stop has people waiting, so it's going to be a moment. I turn back to Muppet-lady and she's half-smiling, looking at me.

Lamely, I say "I was sick."

"Oh." She says, in a voice that betrays her smile. Then she starts digging into her purse again, "Oh dear." She says. I'm not sure what she means by that.

Is it obvious? Does the whole world know? I look at my hands, but they seem the same, if a little greyer than normal. My reflection in the windows of the closed up bookstore stare back impassively, but give no sign as to why. So does she know?

I look at her again, but she is using her little makeup kit to fix some errant line on her eye. She's not smiling though. Muppet-lady always smiles.

"I've been really sick." I say, pushing the lie.

"Oh I hear that. You don't look too healthy now. Maybe you should go home."

Home. I turn away from the Muppet-Lady and stare at the approaching bus. Home is where I'd love to go. My apartment is near by, but it's not really home. You feel safe at home. You feel welcome. Home is where your heart is, as they say. Home is an empty concept.

"Maybe." I say as the bus pulls up. The doors open and I wait for the Muppet-Lady to board before getting on myself. I show my pass to the driver, who barely looks at me. Wrapped up in his own normality. I walk past the rows of faces, all familiar and yet entirely unknown to me. I sit in the back, my usual place, and I stare off at the bus starts to move.

As we pull back into traffic, I spend a moment just staring at the backs of all my fellow passengers' heads. All of them sitting so calmly, so quiet. It's like our lives are on hold for these twenty minutes, while the bus winds its way downtown. No body exists here, and nothing is amiss. Nothing is ever amiss.

I bury my head in my hands and count very slowly to 10. I can't arrive to work in this state. I take a deep breath and look out the window, at the cold gray world passing by.

Again, idly, I wish I had a cigarette, and again I find myself cursing. This time, though, I do so silently, muttering out the swear words in a rapid string. They don't make me feel any better, but they take my mind off why I'm upset, and I need that if I'm going to get through the day.

The bus follows its normal route, slowly getting closer to downtown.

It's a normal Tuesday, and my mother's dead.

The day after her funeral, and I'm going back to work.