From the Road . . .

As I stare out the bus window, it occurs to me how simply I could just disappear. What if I got on another bus in Fredericton headed to Montreal or Maine? Nobody would notice me missing until tomorrow. What would they think when I didn't get off the bus? Would they immediately start to worry? Or would they laugh and think I had missed the bus home? Or would they get angry at my stupidity? When would they start looking for me? How easy would I be to find?

Bus tickets are uniform items, no names, no identification. The girls at the Irving in Blackville would surely remember me purchasing a ticket if for no other reason than there were only two of us. But in Fredericton they must see lots of faces, many people passing through, I'm sure I would blend in.

I'm a pretty inconspicuous wallflower these days. I've fallen off the radar screen. I remember being younger and strangers speaking to me in the street, following me, chasing me even -- there was something about me I guess. I was very approachable and non-threatening. I drew the crazies. Not so much anymore. In a way I miss all the attention . . . but mostly I'm happy not to have to deal with all those people anymore. People don't notice me much now. I'm older of course and heavier, but I'm also more . . . I don't know, cynical? I've become my mother. I'm too old and thick through the middle to be of interest to men or women as either a possible conquest or a potential threat. I've become a kind of sexless blob. (Ironic this should come as I close in on my sexual peak ;-) But I don't mind. I can get on another bus, board a train, catch a flight to destination unknown, slip away in the night unnoticed and unmissed.

This is what I think about on the bus ride to Fredericton. Outside my window I see --

. . . a field with one, two, three, four deer, possibly more. But I've gone past.

. . . a lifesized carving of a moose wears a hunters orange vest so he won't get shot at during the hunting season.

. . . a flock of at least a dozen ducks float by a pillar on an old stone train bridge.

. . . every house in this small town has a wreath of dried flowers hanging in the window of the front door.

. . . a small rack of antlers left outside on an old washing machine. Exposed to the elements, enduring all types of weather, the antlers have aged to a dirty grey. Why keep them at all if they're not a valued prize to be mounted in the living room? I wonder if the family at least ate the meat or if the deer died for no good reason at all.

We stop at a gas station but this is no Mainway. This place is like J.D.'s bastard son -- flaking paint, walls browning with dirt, grimy windows -- the station is like an aging relative, abandoned in this decrepit town, left to rot.

I've forgotten how high up you are in an SMT bus. I can see things from here that I can't from car level. A road winds through a forest gully and into a tiny bridge. Hills roll off into the distance. This province is nothing but woods.

Suddenly I noticed I'm sitting at the Emergency Exit -- Pull up bar. Push out window. I repeat this silent mantra and worry. Can I do it? I don't want this responsibility and glance around nervously to see the faces of those I must save.

I wonder about the houses outside the window. Beautiful new homes on perfectly landscaped lots with lovely gardens and trees. These people care about their homes. This is obvious. Yet, right in the middle of them an old abandoned house falls into the ground surrounded by weeds. Why? Who owns this monstrosity? And why have they not torn it down?

Mood: Contemplative
Drinking: Water
Listening To: The sigh of air conditioning, the drone of road sounds and the tinny beat of faraway music playing on another passenger's stereo headphones
Hair: Fly-Away