It was a tough decision to move back to Texas. I liked the weather better there than in Philadelphia – the cost of living was better – and the cold (and generally cold-hearted people) of Philly had been a disappointment, anyway.
But bad timing had me coming back to Texas the week of Christmas, with no job and enough savings to last maybe a few weeks. A good thing I had the money, too, because it was after January 1 when I was finally able to land a job … in retail, in a shop off Richmond and Montrose, and in the gayest section of town (I won’t say which town – you figure it out).
I worked 8-4 weekdays, and it took a grand total of two days on that job to remember one huge reason I’d moved out of this city a year ago:
The transit system here sucks.
Late buses, surly drivers, drivers who chat on their cell phones as they drive, complaints that are never followed up on – welcome to Texas. Not helping the situation was the fact that huge sections of the city were always simultaneously under construction, further hindering public transit. This city is spread out as it is; with the ongoing construction mess, getting around – even in a car – means you leave twice as early to go half the distance.
So it was no surprise, less than a week into my new job, when I waited for over 45 minutes for a bus that never showed. Finally, around 4:45 that Wednesday afternoon, I spotted two of the same buses heading back to back in my direction. Typical.
The first was full of people – it sped past me at warp speed, the driving thumbing toward the bus behind him. My driver. Damn, was he running late.
I boarded the second, and when the driver smiled at me, all thoughts of late arrivals and shitty transit systems scattered from my mind like white doves at a Kennedy wedding.
He wasn’t gorgeous. He wasn’t hunky.
But he was just plain sexy. A lean African-American man with a boy’s expressive, oval-shaped face, medium brown complexion, a real smile that reached up to his eyes, and short hair cut in a bald fade that was interspersed with the occasional gray hair among the black. Maybe in his mid-thirties, he exuded the charm and energy of a young boy; I could have bedded him on the spot for the smile alone.
“Hey, how you doin’?” he asked, the fine-as-fuck smile in place, his southern accent more Louisiana than Texas. “You all right today?”
“Great, thanks.” And I was … now. Stepping onto the bus, I swiped my daypass, taking the opportunity as I did so to check out his bod.
Lean, as I said, but not skinny, with a flat belly beneath his starched white uniform shirt, and long legs that ended in black socks and shiny black patent leather shoes that looked about a size 12. I couldn’t tell if the large pouch collected in his slacks, at the crotch, was from the way he was sitting, or because he was packin’ (my guess, based on the size and length of his hands and fingers, was that he was packin’). He wore a wedding ring, but that didn’t faze me; I’ve learned that a wedding band is a speed bump, not a stop sign.
