I reach the stop, and the bus halts before completely leaving. They’re waiting. I take the steps, thank the driver, pay him my fare, and take a seat in one of the middle rows. There are no more tellers on the bus. Most people nowadays use prepaid cards.
The bus creaks and screeches, waddles and halts. It’s relatively empty, 10:30am, and I have gotten up on the first stop. My spot is secluded, behind raised seats, but I can hear well. I can hear the little chatterbox sitting on the row to my right a few steps to the front.
He’s about five and is going on about pet habitats and terrariums—“And then, mommy, you can mist the chameleon….” He goes on and on, conversing better than many adults…better than me.
Outside we reach a roundabout where a municipality truck is watering the city lawns. At a nearing
Inside, the seats dip and rise along with the bumps in the road., and the bus smells like morning routines of shampoo and perfumes with wafts of a bonfire outside.
Most of the time the doors open someone gets in, handing over change or tapping cards in a series of beeps. Most everyone is waiting until we reach downtown.
Someone presses the button letting the driver know they’d like to get off. The bus stops and an influx of passengers ascend. The chatterbox leaves, barely pausing to concentrate on the descending steps.
A phone rings, and one of the new passengers—a lady in her early sixties—sits next to me. “Licença.”
We’re crossing the train tracks—almost there. Firefighting recruits congregate outside a red building await their course to begin. The bus passes on and reaches the terminal—the end of the line.
Mogi das Cruzes, SP
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