The New(ish) Journalism sits on his outside seat, elbow at the fickle mercy of The Aisle. He is lodged in beside a large, profusely sweaty male 20 something who spends his time either studiously rubbing his copy of Loaded, or his own crotch. Behind this happy duo, at the "back of the bus", a clatter of scobes (is that the right pluralism?) disgust and frighten their fellow passengers with aberrant relish. Fresh spittle runs down the back of the neck of a petrified young American woman - her name is Alice, from Idaho, on holidays, with Julie, who is situated rigidly in the seat beside her. Elsewhere, tears roll freely down the face of a scared young girl who cannot sit beside her mother due to the lack of free seats on the bus. The young girl is told to "cop the fuck on" by a pregnant female of the species at the back. The fresh black eye she sports cannot provide an excuse, or hide the emptiness within. The New(ish) Journalism offers to swap seats so the little girl can at least sit directly in front of her mother... He does so. For his trouble he is called an "arse bandit" and gets hit across the back of the head with a handle ripped from the back of the bus, thrown with intent. Joanna Newsom serenades him from the glorious realm of Ys, as he fights valiantly for his patience. He eventually wins.
He = Me above. My literary style is nothing if not fitfully consistent folks.
Consequences? I ask you.
P.S. It's a text from the ex... The New(ish) Journalism Busy...