I recently had the terrible realization that I am the bus screamer. Not just yet, but eventually. Whenever there’s a fully developed bus screamer, I feel a deep, almost spiritual connection that startles me to the awareness that I’ve been mumbling incendiary things under my own breath for the duration of our shared commute. So, sooner or later, my inner censor has to give out, and once it does, let the public outrage commence.
In fact, I was recently walking downtown, angrily mumbling to myself as I have been known to do, when an elderly, disheveled gent with one giant rat’s nest dread lock protruding from the center of his head approached me. He placed one hand on my shoulder, looked me dead in the eyes – as much as he could with all the darting back and forth – and said, “Don’t worry, brother. I hear’m too.”
I’m still not sure if I was disturbed by the fact that I was being consoled by the mentally ill or the fact that it was so goddamn comforting. Like, I hugged him and placed my head gently on his filth-encrusted shoulder. And then, he stabbed me with a piece of broken glass.
(listen at https://soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/segovia)