The bus has taken on a warm, smoky glow.
“My name is Louis,” the bus driver had said. “Drunk women call me Louie. And I don’t mind at all.
“There’s only one rule tonight, and that’s that there is
no rule. This is a party bus, a
drinking, dancing, smoking bus. Dance,
laugh, shout. You need cigs? I’ll stop.
You need something at a convenience store? I’ll stop.
Keep all your lovely bits inside the bus, though, let’s not attract more
attention than a black and pink bus already does. Now let’s have a good time!”
This is not, of course, the trusty #17. This is not a commute.
This is an adventure.
It’s Erin’s bachelorette party. Home from Arizona and full of the love that a
two-year absence and a well-run pub crawl can spur, the sun has gone down, the
music has been turned up.
“I THOUGHT I SPOTTED AN OLD HIPPIE,” LouAnn shouts. We have similar dance moves – Soul Train
comes to mind – and we high-five.
“I GOT ABOUT SEVEN INCHES CUT OFF ABOUT A MONTH AGO,” Megan
yells. “YOU DON’T THINK IT LOOKS
CHOPPY?”
“I’M SECOND-HAND SMOKING OVER HERE, MAN,” shouts Kim. “I TELL YOU WHAT – I’M GONNA GO IN THE NEXT
BAR, EAT A LOAF OF BREAD AND ME AND MY GLUTEN ALLERGY ARE GONNA CLEAR THIS
WHOLE BUS. YOU FEEL ME? YOU’RE JUST ONE SLICE OF BREAD AWAY FROM THE
GASSY EXPERIENCE OF A LIFETIME.”
The black and pink bus slides majestically down the
cobblestoned roads to the river, down by the Grain Belt sign, down by where the
35W bridge collapsed.
Diana hands me a beer.
“HISTORIC MINNEAPOLIS.”
I nod, move across the aisle from one side of the bus to
the other to sit next to her. “Can I
just tell you that I’m pretty drunk right now?”
“You could tell me,” she says, “but I wouldn’t beli - hic! – I wouldn’t beli – hic! – I would be disinclined to have
faith in your assumption.”
We grin at each other.
“Nicely done,” I say.
She shrugs.
“English is my native language.”
We twist in our seats, look out the windows to the brick,
to the river, to the stark beauty of the leafless trees against the starlit
skies.
Behind us, music I don’t recognize throbs, bass-heavy. Beautiful women dance in the aisle, shouting
encouragement and jokes. Outside,
Minneapolis moves silently from winter to spring.
Diana wraps her arms around me, and I rest my head on her
shoulder.
“We are the luckiest women in the world,” she says.
I nod. “I am
inclined,” I say, “to have faith in your assumption.”
14 comments:
I beli-hic
Hari OM
Ah the silent slipping of the seasons... and women falling off their six inch heels... no, wait, that is not likely to be silent - or is that an assumption?... YAM xx
You are a rich woman, indeed.
Ah...the party bus....resplendant in pink and black....always room for one more. Could we make a pit stop at the liquor store?
Sounds like a good time, except for the second-hand smoke, and that's just my twitchy bronchi talking. And dang it, now I've got "Louie, Louie" stuck in my interior sound system.
There is a law in the UK that buses have to be driven by miserable little Hitlers. Apparently. #youhearditheresecond
Good ol' Louis was a fine driver, and there was a flurry of cash pressed into his hands at the end of the night. :-)
Pearl
You have a lot more fun than I do....
...and me!
Every story is made better by the presence of the Grain Belt sign.
And your having written it.
How I would love to be an invisible observer on that bus. Participation sounds too dangerous for my wimpy self.
How fun! Well, a little TOO much fun for me, but still...
" I would be disinclined to have faith in your assumption"
That's gold!
I'm going to try and remember it.
It was a very memorable evening. Thanks for encouraging our friend to give me a ride back to my car. Love the description of the bus ride. I had an awesome time! And it was nice to "catch up" with you.
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