The bus pitched and bowed when we got on, but that wasn't the half of it. Hey, that's ironic. The thought of "half" of anything rarely crosses our minds. They knew this. They being everyone else. You could see it in the eyes of the other passengers as they slid over the grimy seats to protect their precious personal space -- a desperate matter of life and limb. In a fever of panic, they looked at us -- for only a millisecond -- as if we were a cage full of rats got loose, looking to chew the juicy parts off anything in our way. That's how it was for us on Thursday nights. We'd all meet in the basement of the 7th Avenue Baptist Church to embrace our crazy. Each week we would talk about our secret hobby. We'd talk about conquering new heights, donor screening, gene therapy, beauty, life, and chaos, all in the same breath, what little we could muster. Hope dwindles as the suspects gather support. We knew this better than anyone. There's no cure for starvation ... not the kind we had anyway. Now they want to charge us for two seats, something about distribution of mass, breaking power, and stress tolerances. I don't understand what all the fuss is about, we only need to go a block and a half.
published 29 June 2011