On the bus with kathy jo

	Waiting for a bus in the bitter dark is ripe territory for self-pity.
Smithfield Street is lined with huge piles of garbage. Trash bags
crackle in a lonely blast of wind that smacks me upside the head. Ah yes
~ a nice dose of physical pain is a healthy reminder that I'm not crazy,
that the world really does suck. 
	Well happy holidays you old self-pity professional, Jo! I do so love
the warm panic of the season but shopping at Gabe's is void of joy.
Parents beat their kids while you stand in line wondering how old the
Hershey Bars in the bin are. But of all the things I could wish for at
Christmas, I ache for a man most. No, not a man, a *boyfriend* who would
spend two weeks worth of lunches just finding me a card. And it wouldn't
begin with *although I never show it . . .* Let it snow, let it snow,
let it snow. Yeah fuck you, too, Johnny Mathis. I'm freezing and there's
no bus in sight. At least boyfriends come with cars. I do so hate being
lonely. But I don't want to "get over it." I don't want to give up.
	Holy mournful wailing and gnashing of teeth! No one wants to hear how
lonely I am. The non-sexless tell me I'm lucky then describe making love
under the magic glow of a Christmas tree. *Happy rug-burns to you and
yours!* Oh I can't believe I'm thinking about sex at a busstop. I'm on
the low road again tonight. But some people love me. A merry prankster
said I was young enough to be his daughter and wise enough to be his
guide. A nuclear engineer fell spank-raving in love with me but canceled
the dream because his family wouldn't approve of me. He was enraged when
I wrote back saying "fuck you" instead of "I understand." He thought I
should be grateful because he didn't use me for sex until he found
someone he could marry. I hope someone pushes me in front of a speeding
bus if I start thanking people for approving of me when it's apparent
that they don't think I deserve it. And how dare I ask for respect as
well? I told him to kiss my ass until it was bruised. 
	People who know me look at me with the appropriate pity. But no one
tries to fix me up with anyone. Hey, that's right. No one. Seems like a
bad sign. But I just don't know how to act with a man I like 'cause I've
met too many men I don't like. They mistake women who put up with their
childish shit because we love them, for women they think enjoy it.
Convenient distinction.
	No wonder I love beautiful Adam Mr.-Sensitive Duritz ~ the charismatic
lead singer of The Counting Jo's, my little darling Jewish, dread-locked
rock star with a voice that inspires all that is good in me. His music
makes me feel, well, I just want someone to love me as much as I love
his music. Truly, after hearing it, I can never accept anything less. 
	Wow, I'm waxing psychotic over my delusional boyfriend and see the bus
coming. It's a sign that he's my cellmate! I mean soulmate. Oh, it's the
wrong gosh darn bus. Well, that's only a sign that I shouldn't be so
quick to read signs. Aw, poor Christmas Jo, baked beyond recognition;
but the holidays are so sad, wishing, well just wishing until I'm weary.
Hey, it *is* my bus. I could've sworn it was the 51G but it's the
Carrick. I'm too tired to figure out what that's a sign of. 
	I get a cozy seat but can't see out of the foggy windows. I put a tape
of holiday tunes with choirs of bells into my headphones. *Ding Dong
Merrily on the Bus . . .* One swipe of my sleeve on the window and I can
see fuzzy Christmas lights. It's so neat looking at decorations from the
bus, headphones removing the world, my concerns dissolving. My mind
wanders into a mystic desert night. I imagine riding a camel under the
light of a star as big as the moon scattered in silver pools across
white sand, my bags full of exotic gifts in oiled cloths. Magi Jo. 
	And I love Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer ~ a misfit even among
misfits. But even *he* had a girlfriend. Oh and I love when she sings
*there's always tomorrow for dreams to come true, believe in your heart
come what may . . . * They were so mean to Rudolph, still reminds me of
growing up in Brentwood. And the misfit toys were so excellent. A gun
that shoots jelly and a bird that swims. I hated those kiss-ass elves
whispering "Herbie doesn't like to make toys." Elfin bastards. Of course
when Rudolph saves the day, they all love him. After their knee-jerk
intolerance for aberrance almost kills him. 
	Shit, I'm getting pissed at elves. I'm not going to think, just look
out the window. Beads of condensation swell until they break unabashed
into crooked streams. Great. Everything reminds me of men. *Oh Dear
Santa, please bring me a man who won't drain the will to live from my
soul.* 
	After Santa stops shaking his head, he looks up with long eyes full of
angry woe and tells me Adam's just a man. *But Santa, it doesn't matter
that he's famous, I revere every man I love, even roofers.* He says "and
you can't help but tell them, huh?" I just nod, affirming him. He shakes
his head, twitches his nose and disappears. Just like every other man. 
	I should've just compiled my "how I ruined my life in '94" list
instead. Well I graduated college in May, was unsuccessful at finding a
job, continued writing and used that to alienate scads of people by
telling them I collected welfare. I admitted I loved a man I never met
who hates people who think they love him without knowing him. But I
can't help it. You never really know anyone anyway. 
	And my little son Leo is gone. Just when I thought I couldn't be any
happier, he stole handguns so I had to surrender custody of him. Going
to see him at Shuman Center was so like, surreal. Now I am officially a
total failure at life. I'll be off welfare now that he's gone. I'm sure
the interest rate will plummet and affluence will abound. Stupid fucking
bastards.
	There I go whining again. See, I'm perfect for Adam.



copyright 1994 kathy jo kramer
copyright 1994