He sits at the bus stop on Pacific Coast Highway, across from the Pacific Shopping Center and the Hyatt Manchester. It is six thirty and the wind shill is 20 degrees. Five layers of clothing have no effect on the Alaskan snow ball, . Another bus arrives and two domestics exit while the driver turns his wheels towards the curb for his fifteen minute rest.
His State Retirement pay checks wait for him at the Carlsbad Post Office. He has picked the checks up at this post office for about five years now. He had learned his lesson well not to trust the banks anymore, ever since a levy removed the wired money that was supposed to be in his account.
George is envious as they wear warm coats and he with a pull-over sweat shirt. At least he wears the beanie he found laying next to a Jack-in-the Box on Beach three months ago. The Beanie keeps his ears and bald head warm. His prayers are answered as the number one bus arrives. After snatching his nap sack from the post he enters and finds an empty seat in the rear of the bus.
Thirty minutes of Alaskan ice has invaded his body. Still he is cold and hopes his body will defrost soon so he can breathe. The bus pursues Balboa Island and Newport Beach. More domestics get on at Magnolia and Brookhurst. He can now wiggle his fingers. He is the only white on the bus. A male domestic enters and sits on the back. He exchanges a few words with another well groomed mustache while sipping some coffee.
The bus makes a left and goes up to the Costa Mesa Fashion Center. It stops at the Newport Transit Station to pick up more domestics -- that is all except one bald black who wears shorts and a tee shirt He holds a attaché case and is muscular in his appearance. The six foot something Muscle takes a seat next to me while more than twenty black pony tails or buns enter.
In the rear it is like an old fashion fandango. Everyone knows each other and their Spanish is spoken fast. You'd think they were celebrating a wedding. The bus ambles back the way it came and continues south on P.C.H. Balboa Bay is to my left but I shun the sun light since it hurts my eyes. I adjust my beanie over an eye to ignore the suns rays.
The bald man wears expensive glasses and his eyes dissect the scene in front of him. He thinks he might be from the East as fifty degrees seems warm to him. Again his eyes dart out the buses window.
Hunger overtakes George while more peal off the bus. From his nap sack he removes a salami sandwich and makes mince meat of it. Unaware of how hungry he is, the removes four eggs and devours each in an instant -even eating the egg shells. No longer does he visit Siberia.
Homes on a hillside tells him Laguna Beach is next. To the left our homes with a view and to my right are bluffs and a beautiful ocean. He can't get over that people wake up with a view of the ocean. The seagulls have a better view.
The bus exits on Broadway and picks up more transit passengers inside a tiny street of little shops. Some buns leave the bus and few board. The bus exits and takes the route back to the main drag. It takes forever to leave Laguna Beach. To the right are volleyball courts with benches on green grasses that overlook the ocean and big bluffs.
Dana Point and the Monarch Bay come into view as the us turns to the left and climbs a hill. It takes a minor detour and charges up to the 5 freeway and enters for one offramp that spills out into San Juan Capistrano. The sun is out in full force while the bus kisses the Ralph's Shopping Center and the D.M.V. It swings around a hill of more homes with a view and travels along the coast highway until Senior Pico comes into view and the Metro Link Station .
The Metro Link Station is his stop. So far not a farthing has he spent on this one hour and twenty minute ride. He has saved nineteen dollars for this trip to Carlsbad. The first long leg is finished and he celebrates that he has made it to his future home, San Clemente.
Mr. Muscles follows him to the only cofffee shop awake at this train stop. His bus to Oceanside will arrive at nine thirty. It is only eight twenty so he cuddles inside the warm coffee shop and forks out a dollar and ninety cents for a small coffee. A young smile works his order
"Wish room for cream?"
'Please do."
Mr. Muscles sit on a stool at the side of the coffee shop. He pours some cream and sugar inside his cup and takes a seat facing the train station. Yes, San Clemente is a good fit, he thinks as the sun hits him.
"Mam there is only one train that comes here now. It is the nine thirty for Oceanside." A middle aged girl wears and flees while a Jesus look-alike waits for the only train. A train of long hair cascades down his back and his face is covered with a well manicured beard. He carries a bag and nap sack"
A bell rings and then the sound of a clang...clang as the train arrives at the deserted train stop. I don't have a ticket since I have never seen a conductor ask for a ticket on the leg to Oceanside. The beaches are small but the heart of San Clemente yearns for me. Miles of rustic hills that carry a walkway tell me it is for me.
It is too early for surfers today, but that is Ok since I sam now warm and cozy by the shores of San Clemente. The Jesus look alike and oh yes, Mr. Muscles board the train too.
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