It’s 11:04pm, I’m driving the last 35 to boulder creek and I’m stopped at the light on Front street at Soquel. It’s late and I’m tired and all I want to do is go home. I can see someone frantically waiving at me from the bus stop in front of CVS. Fuck. I can’t tell who it is but I know it’s probably not going to be good and I’m already over it. The light turns green and the waiving gets more frantic. It’s a guy and he’s running back and forth between the curb and a shopping cart. Back and forth, back and forth, three times in quick succession as I slow for the stop.
::sigh:: It’s Joey.
Imagine Mister Magoo as a drunk schizophrenic that likes drugs except without the glasses and you’ve got Joey. He’s bent over the shopping cart, digging through a pile of recycle. “The bus is here! The bus is here!”
“Hurry up Joey! I wanna go home.”
“The bus is here! The bus is here! Come on man, the bus is here!”
He’s yelling at the bundled up lump of a man sitting on the bench that obviously has zero interest in Joey or the bus.
“Yeah, okay m’am I’m coming!” Joey runs over and taps the lump on the shin with is foot. “The bus is here!”
The lump yells, “Fuck off you fucking asshole!”
“He doesn’t want the bus Joey, lets go!”
“He said he wants the 71!”
“Joey, this is the 35.”
“Yes m’am, I’m coming!” He jumps onto the bus with an armload of stuff and a big black trash back that’s nearly empty. He runs to the back of the bus.
“You gotta put money in the box, bro!”
“I ain’t got 3 arms!”
Joey comes running back down the aisle. “I just need to get one more thing!”
“No more things!!”
“Yes m’am, but can I at least get my jacket?”
::sigh: “Go on, get your jacket.”
“Yes m’am, thank you m’am” He bends over the shopping cart to rifle through it some more. “I can’t just leave all of this recycle here…”
“You can and you will or I will leave you! Ain’t nobody got time for you and your recycle right now.”
A voice from the back of the bus yells “I gotta go to work!”
A second voice chimes in “Hurry up!”
Joey jumps back onto the bus with his jacket in the crook of his arm, three empty water bottles in one hand and a laundry detergent container in the other. He stands at the fare box trying to stick his hands in his pocket to get at his money. “I have it right here!”
::sigh:: “Have a seat Joey, you’ve earned it.”
“Thank you beautiful!” He walks down the aisle to the back of the bus. “She’s beautiful isn’t she! She’s a beautiful Irish peach!”
What the fuck is an Irish peach? It doesn’t matter. I settle into tonights soundtrack for the last 35. It’s the sound of joey’s recycling bag skidding back and forth across the floor with every turn, occasionally punctuated by shouts of “Goodbye! See you later!” as people exit and “She’s a lovely peach”, periodically, for seemingly no reason other than to remind himself of my Irish peachy goodness.