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I ride the bus of small hope, surrounded by my little monkeys. Hate me if you want to, but it’s what they call themselves. They have the same dreams as we do but we’re different in one way: they don’t ridicule our dreams. Because they’re used to so little, they don’t expect much. Combine that with how little they ask and how uncomfortable we are being so stingy, and we end up giving them next to nothing. That we can live with, but when they turn around and give something to us unasked, that’s when we’re stunned and shamed. I used to buy two newspapers for my commute. Now, instead, I hold one page before me and look for the truth of their hearts and mine between the lines. The driver loves to tease them all with childish names despite their age and laughs when they tease him back. They call him Special. As for me, I’ve always been furniture, shielded by my paper, nameless as an empty seat. The blond one materializes by my side and motions for me to escort her down the aisle as if she knows I’ll understand. She waits for me to hook my arm through hers, to smile, to stand beside as the substitute father who gives her away to the grinning boy with the spotty mustache. Her faith is dizzying. She can’t have known that it would stun and shame me. But she did know I was there for her, hoping she’d need me, figurative flower in my buttonhole. I’m marrying Skanky, she tells me. See my ring? I had to ask him. Yes you are too, Skanky! This is a, my veil, I made it from a scarf. Yes you are too, Mister Skanky. We are too going on a honeymoon!

Copyright © December 17, 2006