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Two Short Travelogues

by Mira Martin-Parker

Them, and Them
They ride the bus. They are crippled-looking and sick. They watch daytime television. They live on fixed incomes. They get checks in the mail. They eat packaged food. They are pudgy. They wear taped-together glasses. They have holes in their clothes. They have badly dyed hair, with dark roots coming in. They scratch themselves. They get in fights with themselves. They smell like bedtime. They crunch on things loudly. Corn nuts? Sunflower seeds? They spit out the husks. They carry an old vinyl purse, an old backpack, a military bag. They are an old man, an old woman, a transvestite with lots of hairspray and a stuffed top. They sit itching their sores while the baby next to them cries. As soon as the back door opens, they smile, and toss out an empty beer can.

They smell of department store cologne. They wear Italian shoes that are too big for their feet. They wear suits in shades of grey, olive, and navy. On weekends they wear sweaters in shades of beige, white, and pale blue. They have a certain air of cleanliness about them, the sort revealed in a shiny forehead. They have the kind of good health that comes from jogging in the morning, drinking milk, and eating scones from Starbucks. Their various skill-sets involve mathematics, computers, and marketing. They buy their Audis in Freemont. Their women are blonde. Their psyches have been sufficiently saturated with evening television and Newsweek. Sometimes, when having lunch at the Ferry Building, they stare blankly out the window, wishing they were someone else. But only for a moment, before flipping open their cell phone and making a call.

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