It’s been a quiet day.
That changes with her arrival on the bus.
Sit here, next to me, won’t you? Because she looks like the kind of woman who will be entertaining, and I tire of witnessing these things by myself. Bright purple pants, silver sandals, a Pepe Le Pew tee-shirt knotted at the waist and proclaiming “I’m a Li’l Stinker”, I can’t help but hope that she is, indeed, a li’l stinker.
But back to the pants, for one turns down one’s iPod when these kinds of pants get on the bus.
These are not just any pants. These are, if you’ll excuse the expression, “in your face” pants. Perhaps there was money involved, wagers placed as to whether or not she could get them on and keep them on for a length of time. Made of a surprisingly sturdy material nonetheless going a bit shiny and distressingly thin in the rear, I get a good look at the seam running up her backside as she stops at the seat across from me, bends over to place her bag down in the seat next to the window. She throws herself into the aisle seat with a satisfied “umph”.
“Mmm-hmmm,” she intones. “You got that right.”
For just a moment I am startled. I then realize she’s talking on the phone. I stare out my window, ears attuned. Who got what right now?
“Mmm,” she says. “That’s what I think, but dang! Michelle gon’ take him out, honey. First time in history a sittin’ president be killed by his own wife.”
“That’s what I say,” she nods, laughing. “Girl, you know the only reason he make Condoleeza Rice Security Advisor is so he can get in her pants! Heh, heh, heh! Nah, nah, she good-lookin’, but if Hillary threw a lamp and missed, Michelle gon’ throw the lamp and it gon’ find its target.”
Ah. The mystery revealed, but it’s not Condoleeza Rice that has been named National Security Advisor.
It’s Susan Rice.
Shall I tell her?
In the end, I decide against it.
There’s nothing to do but turn my iPod back on – and watch her as she departs, just three stops later, still laughing about what’s about to go down on Pennsylvania Avenue.