Alone under print

The long line of passengers queued up and paid little attention to the show as the lead character entered rotating door stage left. He placed one hand against the wall; rotated one hundred and eighty degrees and slid down as far as the ground would let him go. Their trips had yet to begin; his at long last was over. Their challenges lay ahead. His challenge was just to find peace in a world of endless corners and curbs. What they supposed was a truckload of no ones fault but his own, carried a small brown tapered bag. Their eyes dismissed him into attention-less mind spans while his sighs flew free into the marbleized cathedral of destinations. Had he been a Broadway show poster against the wall they might have paid notice or a cab they might have hailed for a ride. But no one, neither liberal nor conservative, faint of heart, or sad sack sucker paid notice to his final countdown. Five thirty on Friday night in a bus station is not the place to make charitable contributions, no matter how loud of a bell you hear ringing, or how bare of a hat you find lying in front of you. It would take a police escort to move him away; but that was perhaps at least an hour or two gone at best. They already noticed him, but with the crowds this time of night, no security wanted to make a scene. Scenes upset people. People minding their own business prefer their lives to be scene less. They might like to listen to their I-pod’s and move on reading papers about people they will never meet or take the time to know. What Giuliani calls a safe town, is also a good place to die alone under print.

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