by Pedro Ponce
I was just in time to catch the bus to Sin Servicio. I had never been, and the crawl of amber letters over the pristine windshield shone with the design of fate.
I asked the driver what Sin Servicio was like. Very quiet, he replied. Not much going on.
Perfect, I said. How much?
The driver rubbed thoughtfully at the stubble on his cheeks. It’s an unusual destination, he explained. Not many ask to go. It’s rather out of the way. And yet, at some point, all paths lead there. That is the paradox of Sin Servicio.
I nodded to convey my understanding.
I hesitated only briefly at the sum required. As I counted out bills, the driver complimented me on my daring and discernment. So many of my compatriots were afraid of trying new things, preferring the well-trod museums and marketplaces. He folded his payment into a pocket of his vest and indicated the plaza where I was to wait until called.
published 1 January 2014