Old Stories Find New Beginnings

Here is what could technically be called the beginning of a story I wrote a while ago. I really liked the mood it created but after I finished writing it, I didn't know where to take it. A little editing took place since this last saw the light of day, but something still prevents me from carrying it any further. Some of you may have read it before, and others may have not. Have a read and tell me what you think.

~James


It was Wednesday. There was no need to look at a calendar; I could just feel it. The mid-week lag that most feel when they know that there is still three whole days ahead of them before a break again. Short-lived two day spurts where we can pretend to be free.

The rain was coming down pretty hard now. That always makes the bus ride more tolerable. The beating of the rain drops against the window like steady native drums. And I always get a kick out of the people sitting in their cars as the bus passes by on the shoulder, splashing water all over their shiny BMWs or Lexus or whatever-the-fuck luxury car they have. I laugh because I know it threatens them in a way; reality invades their misperceived perfection.

The bus slaloms its way to the city; ducking and dodging in and out between cars, trucks and other commuting vehicles. Sometimes jumping off the road and barreling down the shoulder with an almost egotistical sense of superiority over the rest of traffic. The other cars sitting idly by as they watch, wishing they too could enjoy such a privilege. And then, almost as if approaching a castle moat, the bus slows to a trot and sneaks into the city; an overcrowded façade of half-hearted individuals marching like drones drudging their way to their cubicles or corner offices. I try to drown the sound of the city out with music, but the view is too overpowering to numb my senses completely. Thank God for the rain. It helps to mask the emptiness of the city. It reminds me that nature is still there; even if it needs to invade, as the rain seems to be almost always perceived as.

We round the corner to 9th street, stopping by the old stone church. The dusty-red brick looks almost new as the water cascades down the walls, creating tiny water falls from brick to brick. Everyday it’s always the same; suits getting off at the stop here. Pressed, neat and clean with their canvas-tan side bags; the new briefcase. Always dressed to impress; bunch of mannequins. Only today they walk under blooming umbrellas, often matching their suit. It’s all about the image.

The bus approaches the first stop inside the city, and I can see the hesitation in their steps as they approach the lip of the bus stairs, fearing they may get a drop or two on their nice, pressed pants. One gentleman unnoticeably steps through a puddle, soaking his pant leg. He stops in disbelief, and then begins to angrily shake his foot desperately to rid it of the excess water. I can’t help but smirk. Its rain, get over it.

Finally my stop approaches, and a groan settles in my stomach. I’m barely awake as I lift my hand to the top of the seat in front of me to lift myself standing. Enthusiastic, I am not. Though I find the effort to step out into the rain; walking in it will be the best part of my day.