The windows of the buss rattled in my ear with each dime left in the street. Across the aisle a little girl with a silver tooth sang her abc's while a black man handed out flyers for his new store. I'm not going to go to the grand opening. Sweatshirts with dollar signs aren't my style. In the front of the bus a religious debate wars on and every new passenger is subject to pinpoint questions they probably had succesfully avoided until today; you could see the wheels of their minds loosing traction in their eyes. I'm not sure I mind these adventures. Theres something oddly relaxing about watching your city go by, the people so small from a few feet higher, and your total lack of responsibility for everything that goes on. Its all taken care of. Just watch for your stop.

We bought a new car. The Mercedes has to go. I'm not as sad about it anymore; I just keep my eyes away from the sidewalk, where the baby benz is parked just on the other side of my summer lawn, its baby blue paint still shinning in the sun. It needs a new home, a family with children, perhaps, and a big yard.

The new car is a 1980 Honda Civic Wagon, green with blue front seats and original carmel back seat bench. It smells like my baby sitters car did, back when I was seven rolling in the back of her postal truck. It smells like gass and oil and sounds like tin cans blowing down the street. I love it.

-A.H.