My birthday month proved the most difficult-- what with only a budget of $100 to last until the end of August. But family matters and the fact that my retirement check had been cut about one and a half hundred made me almost buckle to my knees...
While having a taco lunch with my friends at the Huntington Beach Senior Center, I told them I could travel to Oceanside without spending one penny. I needed to pick up my retirement check inside the Carlsbad Post Office. My rent check and other payments were duly due.
Eight dollars, yes eight dollars separated me from those who bank at the Albertson's recyle center to exchange tin for food-money. My state check waiting for me at a Carlsbad post office.
Back inside my Elis apartment, I heated up a baked potato and beans and threw them fully cooked inside my nap sack. I needed to pick up and get to Carlsbad where my state check awaited inside my P.O. Box. The 29 bus crossed Main Street and stopped at the bus stop.
Mainly Latinos took up most of the seats, some asleep, or just gazing outside. I slid my monthly pass inside a slot and took up a seat in the rear of the bus. The bus arrived at P.C.H. at about six o'clock and I got off along with three other Mexicans.
"Can you tell me where the #1 bus stop is?"
"Over there sir, where the Mexicans have stopped.", the sweat driver confessed.
Several homeless blankets slept beside the concrete benches. The smell of tobacco and urine was prevalent, but I am immune to these smells by now. I felt happy to have worn my sweater, bought for me by my ex-girl friend Gloria. I felt the approach of Mr. Fall.
It felt strange to be the only white on the bus as all wore buns or black pony tails, that is except for the sleeping lady wrapped in a blanket and hood. Her left foot dangled in the aisle In the back a few began to chatter and laugh. I have never witnessed so many happy faces going to work. Whether a maid, servant, cook, or laborer, each made the best of it and a few began to sing.
We traveled south through Balboa, and at Newport Beach, took a side trip to a transit station where about fifteen climbed aboard. A little white lady, at least one hundred and twenty years old climbed, or tried to climb aboard. The driver pressed his lift button and she scrambled to a disabled seat.
My eyes opened wider as circled the harbor and finally got to Laguna Beach, larger than I ever thought it was. The rays from the suns shadow alerted me it was still morning. Just listening to the steady beat of Spanish as the harbor and vintage shops made this ride thrilling.
Nary any were depressed. They all looked forward to work and the bus stepped forward to Aliso Creek and other smaller drinks of water. The bus left Laguna and crept on to Dana Point. It was now almost eight o'clock and I knew that my stop inside San Clemente was coming up.
It freeway-ed on he Five for a minute and invaded a San Juan \Capistrano community for a mile or two before descending to San Clemente, a city built next to the ocean with a rusty hill of houses, like inside a stadium, enjoying the views below of blue water against a morning blue sky.
" Can you tell me where the station is?" (More to come, unedited.)
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