Thoughts at 16.

The bus, my life line, is the cities' system for the rich but stingy and uncaring people of all colors. It reminds me of  mice speeding in and out of the woodwork. Los Micros, is the system most depended on even if there was a foot of rain in the road. Sun, clouds or rain there we would be awaiting the chance to get out of the rain, to get to work, school, or to buy an onion for the upcoming lunch, we would ride. Going anywhere was made possible; all I needed to do was walk out my door and a block to the left. The short walk was filled with dirt in the air, always dirt everywhere, in your eyes, ears, mouth, and shoes. The sun beating down on your neck would make you stumble on the commonly scattered rocks and ceramic tiles on the ground. A quick glance and a hop across the street, accompanying the ignored whistle of an interested yard worker and there I would be. The strays would come and sit to get a pat while you waited. You could always hear the overheating engine as the driver shifted to meet his designated time stamp.
The first sight of the orange front, and the anticipation of the oncoming micro sends a tingle down my spine; with a small wave of my hand, I flag the driver to a stop.  My face sets still, cold and waiting for the exact moment when I need to jump, in order to enter with perfect timing. It was such a simple movement,  an extending of the leg with a little hop, a reach to the nearest pole; and I was in. In the morning, the cramped area held an overwhelming amount of people, causing your muscles to tense and brain to focus only on not falling. The first step is always passing your fare to the mindless driver with long fingernails and saying your thanks and what a nice day it was.
There you stand, you wait, and move with the masses of bodies pulling and falling with the next stops and heavy shifts. The simplicity of just being in that spot was settling. I would watch the traffic out of a little hole between armpits and heads. An occasional dying tree or brown patch of grass was in the my view.  Knowing that you are breathing with the people of your new country; thinking the way you are being taught to think. Every once in awhile a familiar face hops into the movement, the only recognition is the curve of a nose, or the space between their eyes. Being so involved with the people, practically sitting on their lap and then it plays. "Creep" by Radiohead jamming out in my ears, but this time it really sinks in.
"But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo, What the hell am I doing here?, I don't belong here"
My thoughts run wild, all I can think about is life, about these people, about my people. Why was I there? Why was I standing in the bus so many miles south? The middle of nowhere with people I learned to love but still knew nothing about. They were all so beautiful but that was it. I hop out into the sun and dirt. Leaving my thoughts, gathering my balance and moving on; and El Micro chugs away. That large dirty scrap of metal that holds so many of my thoughts, epiphanies, and a drop of sweat or two. The bus, el micro, my life line.