“Look at that girl over there, [Agent] 33; she’s completely lost her marbles,” Filipina Agent 32 (code name: Monique) states while seated on a bench at the Sunset Transit Center in Beaverton (northwestern Oregon) on an almost-record-setting-high-temperature-hot, blazingly-bright-sun-saturated-late-afternoon September Wednesday in 2020. “Buang kaayo!” [‘so crazy’ in Cebuano]
I quickly spot the full-attention-arresting, overtly quirky, startlingly-slender-from-(un)intentional-undereating, medium-length-blonde-hair-with-fuchsia-dyed-ends, sans-makeup-but-with-a-generic-blue-disposable-facemask, androgynous-appearing young lady of about 20 to 22 years dressed in boyish blue jeans and a presumably-self-painted-abstract-image-on-the-front T-shirt. She is meandering from bus shelter to bus shelter in a very odd, robot-esque manner. Whenever she comes up to a warning sign or route schedule, she abruptly stops and tilts her head. And then nods a few times, does a semi-about-face, and mechanically marches to the next post requiring her acknowledgment.
“I’m afraid that poor lass was slipped some bad dope – some really bad dope: a brain toxin. Some serious neural damage there. There’s a lot of it around here, Monique.” Is he recording? Again? Bet he is. The sly weasel.
“Monique? Oh, is your DAR [Digital Audio Recorder] running?”
“Indeed it is,” I reply. “Running for glory.” Oh, please.
“Are you going to compose another story later?”
“Yep, as soon as we get back to Charlotte.”
“Nice. It’s been a while since I was in one.” She’s right. Can’t even remember the last autobiographical one.
“It has been a while … too long of a while,” I add. Too long of a while? / Do two whiles make a long? Time. A longer while? A longer wong? An archaic mead monger?
The as-if-in-a-trance young woman then walks past us from the Route 59 bus shelter and alights in front of the three-level-parking-deck, cubic-glass-block, elevator-shaft wall.
Monique shakes her white-on-red LFC facemask (which matches mine) after she passes. “So many crazy people out here. Remember that guy shouting on the train yesterday?” How could I ever forget?
“Oh, yes, the light-skinned African American fellow on the [MAX light rail] Red Line who was going on about ‘all lives matter’. Yeah, he was quite agitated – and quite intoxicated. But harmless.”
“What was he saying, 33? I kept my earbuds in, listening to Love Radio Pinay.” [a station in Cebu City, Philippines]
“He was saying that he doesn’t like hearing ‘black lives matter’ because his mom is white. There are off-the-cuff spouters on mass transit systems in every U.S. city, Monique. After they get high or drunk, they think they have something profound to say at high volume to all of the passengers. And, well, maybe sometimes they do. Though, most often, not so much.”
“I hate loud, rude, inconsiderate people on buses and trains, 33. And yet, I’ve never heard one on the [Lynx] Blue Line. [in Charlotte] I think the QC [Queen City] has better manners.” Better manners?!
“Oh, I’m sure that it has occurred when we weren’t on it, 32. I’ve certainly heard many a bombastic boor on the Route 9 CATS bus. As for Charlotte being better behaved than Portland … hmmm … I don’t know about that … a lot of homicides in Charlotte; it’s becoming a murderville.” [sic]
The deranged female then says something very softly to a 50-ish, welcomely, regular-looking, casual, camouflage-ball-capped-and-facemasked Caucasian man. The gentleman points to his left and then begins to slowly walk towards a nearby bus-stop parking slip (of which there are about a dozen).
“So, what will be the plot of the next short story, 33?”
“Not sure, 32, but what we’ve said so far will be used to get it going.” Oh, brother.
“When does the bus come?” Hope it’s soon. I’m sweating. Yuck! This awful body odor!
“6:39 PM. Forty-one minutes to go, Monique. It’s an Amtrak Thruway coach to Cannon Beach; it won’t look anything like those Trimet buses over there. Where it stops [Midtown] at Cannon Beach is only two short blocks from our hotel –perfect for car-less travelers like us. I’m just not exactly sure where it picks up here.” He’s not sure where it picks up?! Oh, no. This aint good.
Monique groans. “If we miss this bus, what happens?” Hope we can get out of Dodge … with the ball: Operation Dodgeball. Must use that line someday. Should jot it down. Darn! No pen. Must not forget it during the write-up.
“I shudder to think, then shutter and sink. There are no car rental places near here that are open. We can’t take a ride-share like Uber or Lyft that far; the fare would be through the roof. I guess that we could walk back across the pedestrian overpass to the Rodeway Inn and see if they have a vacant room.” Oh, dear. Those steps! Again?! Those bums? Again?! Don’t want to get in an elevator with anyone during this Covid-19 pandemic. Though, we were in two airplanes for a combined six hours with over eighty passengers. Might I have contracted that nasty multi-spiked virus? An asymptomatic carrier?
“Not room 251 again. The flat sheet had a hole in it and the bedspread was stained. When I was a housekeeper, 33, we trashed bedding like that – immediately.”
“Well, that’s because you worked at a 5-star hotel; our rode-the-hard-way lodge is probably a 1.5. Anyway, did you like the Oregon Zoo, 32?”
“Yes, especially the three giraffes – my favorite animals.”
“What did you think of the monkeys, Monique?”
“Monkey see, monkey do. What did you think of them, 33? Did you detect a saving grace for our human race?”
“Nope. We’re still too primatal. [sic] They just reinforced my thinking that humans are ultimately a doomed species. And the more that ‘what is on everyone’s mind’ is revealed, the worse it will get.” Gosh, he’s so negative now.
“Primatal, primatal, primatal … that’s not even a real word, 33! So, we’re primates who are related to chimps – it’s a whole lot better than being descendants of ants!”
“Not sure that can be proved, 32.” Proved?
Monique shakes her head. “Where did you go yesterday when I was taking my nap?” Bet he got into some mischief.
“Just wandering around, 32. Stumbled upon a cool dispensary called Electric Lettuce. Remember the store with the psychedelic mural?”
“Oh, yes, those lurid colors. Super-cool design.”
“Well, I couldn’t resist. Virtually no weed in nine years. They had edibles. Not a smoker anymore, but I’m still a sucker for THC edibles on special occasions – like this trip. Thus, I bought three cookies. What the hell. Why not? We’re on our long-awaited West Coast vacation. Anyway, it’s legal here.”
“No wonder you were so silly yesterday, 33.”
“Was I?” So uber-chatty.
Monique rolls her eyes. “Did you go anywhere else?”
“After there I went to an independent convenience store to look for your desired protein drink. The owner, a Korean American man who was about my age, [mid-50s] went into a rant after I casually asked him how his business was doing.” Such an instigator.
“Oh, really? And what did he say, Parkerismo?” [one of Monique’s many slang terms for me]
“Here it is verbatim, 32,” I announce as I turn up the volume on my new LG often-too-smart-for-me-to-operate phone.
“How is business, you ask? My business is terrible! Absolutely terrible. It has never been worse. Ever! It’s going down the toilet. Fast. I’m barely hanging on. Only by a thread. I’m way behind on my lease. The landlord’s agent said that he can’t afford to carry me anymore. I’m finished. It’s over. My time is up. And, you know what? It’s all because of Portland. Yes, I blame it all on Portland. Those once-peaceful protests – which I was sympathetic to – are now nightly riots that are broadcast all over the nation. Nights were my most profitable time. Now it is nearly nothing after sundown. No one wants to go out at night – no one except for the vandals and miscreants. They all hate Trump – and I’m no Trumper [sic] – but they are all unwittingly aiding his reelection campaign, but are too dense to realize it. [clears his throat] No, I’m sorry; I don’t have Muscle Milk. So, why in the world did you come here from peaceful North Carolina?” Woah! Sure wasn’t expecting that! But, that man is correct. Except about North Carolina being peaceful. Did he not see the riots in Charlotte, Raleigh, and Asheville? / Glad I got that captured. Good, raw, unvarnished material. Politics are such a third rail, though. Especially now. Maybe shouldn’t include it. Want to keep psecret psociety apolitical. But, this is such an even-handed gift. Wonder what Monique thinks: run with it, or scrap it? Maybe wait and ask her when we get home. Yeah.
“You didn’t answer with ‘For the water’ again, did you, 33?”
“No, I left that readily graspable, low-hanging fruit in Casablanca, 32.” Whatever.
“Ok, where exactly does this bus pick us up?” Monique asks anxiously after looking around for several seconds.
“Yes, that is the million-dollar question, 32.”
Just then the normal guy appears. “You guys waiting for The [Northwest] Point bus?” The point bus?
“We’re waiting for the Amtrak Thruway bus,” I respond. “Would you know where it stops on this oblong, curved curb?” Oblong?
“Could I see your ticket?” he politely asks. Hold on … Is this a snatch-and-dash hustle. Don’t be a schmuck; keep a firm grip on the sheet of paper.
“Fifty-five, sixty-four at 6:39. We’re on the same bus. I’m going to Seaside; it’s the stop after yours.”
“How is Seaside?” Monique swiftly enquires.
“Spring and fall are nice; summer is divine; winter is soggy, but rarely frozen. The chilly January and February drizzle can weigh on you, but I like it overall. It’s a bit remote, but once you’re there, you’ve got about everything you need. I moved out here from Houston three years ago. The steamy east Texas heat finally got to me. I have a car; I left it parked under my condo. I just like kicking back on these buses. The stops are few; thus, there’s not much time loss. Also, the seats are much more comfortable than the one in my Kia – even better than on most airplanes. By the way, I’m semi-retired now and loving it.” What a lucky dog.
“I’m envious,” I divulge. “I have several more years to go in Charlotte.”
“Oh, what do you do?” the brown-haired man asks.
“Safety writing for the loot; short stories for a hoot,” I answer. For a hoot?
“Ah, I do a little writing, too,” he then discloses. “Charlotte, huh? I met a bunch of vendors from Charlotte at a trade show about a decade ago. We had a blast afterwards. A fun group they were.” Bet they all got hammered in a strip club.
“So, what’s the deal with that girl?” Monique then bluntly asks. Wonder what she said to him. So curious to know.
“Well, she’s definitely out there in her own orbit,” the forest-green-shirted man replies. “She told me that she wanted to go back to the Gresham Transit Center, but didn’t want to take the light rail for some reason, even though the Blue Line is 40 minutes quicker than the Route 20 bus. She muttered something about wanting to avoid tunnels because they ‘compress’ her mind.” Tunnelitis. [sic]
“Oh, maybe she’s claustrophobic,” Monique suggests. Though, she appears to have way more issues than that. / She was once some hapless couple’s sweet-and-innocent-with-teenage-trapdoors-nowhere-in-sight baby daughter. So much addiction here. Walking wreckage abounds.
The Northwest Point bus arrives at 6:39 on the dot. It is a tranquil, relatively low-traffic journey on US 26 West through the sylvan Oregon Coast Range. Just after twilight, the bus merges onto US 101 South. The sparsely populated motor coach rolls into Cannon Beach at 8:18. Yey! We made it.
We soon begin exiting the long-aisled vessel. Monique suddenly stops and tells the non-irregular man: “Thanks for talking to us. You’re a godsend.” He sure settled some nerves.
“Thanks. But I’m not sure if my girlfriend would agree.” He chuckles.
Monique gives him a thumbs-up as we pass. He waves. I nod in appreciation of his shared info.
Once safely ensconced in our hotel room at Harrison & Hemlock, while Monique is chowing down on some rewarmed-via-microwave-oven spring rolls, I muse about the spaced-out young lady at the Sunset Transit Center. Something – a unique present – perhaps from her 10th birthday. The object is lost and forgotten, hidden under her childhood dresser. Is it a silver dollar from her maternal granddad? When will it be found? And by whom? What will they think? And where will she be then?