Brooklyn45

In need, I spied the B45 bus lumbering up to the stop at Kingston Av. It was a reward given me for not stopping to buy beer. I was sure of it. Now I'd arrive on time and sober. Sprinting into traffic I was heralded by car horns, one stopped waving me along as I waved it, along, the two of us; idiots, in our polite protocols. My feet hurt. The previous 8000 miles were easier, long but leisurely nothing so dramatic as an impending city bus and the B45 drivers were known fr their disregard. But that was inky truth of people who got left behind, so I hauled ass down St. Johns Place. Running, the bus passed me before as I was midway to the next stop. My exercise was pointless. Naturally my running slowed futile. Until being from Brooklyn reminded me we go hard and hardly quit. The bus seemed off it's pace as well. Fact was in passing the driver took note of my desperate steps.
A yellow light blinked on the side of the hunkered down blue and white plastic covered transport. The doors hissed open twenty feet ahead of me, ignoring the fact there were no passengers at the stop or disembarking from the bus. He waited.

 A sound wheezed from me. A "thank you" croaked out and barely cleared the tongue after a more determined exhalation of barely there air. The driver nodded to my sentiment or my presence or both or neither. I babbled on, my wallet stuck. I trying to hurry the light still red and the driver finally offered, "it's the weekend" I thought I knew this information so I nodded.

"if it was a weekday with people having to get to work" The bus driver let the sentence drift like a likely birthday balloon, finally punctuated by a "hmmmp!" for empathizes. Now I got it. I tried to pay it back offering my grin of awareness and friendship plus a second dose of "thank you" I didn't need to. The deed was paid for. It was rewarding in Brooklyn.

(a piece of brooklynborn fiction)