The Giulio Metaphysics III by Michael Mirolla

Author:Michael Mirolla
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Leapfrog Press
Published: 2013-04-22T00:00:00+00:00

Families, Friendlies, Familiars III

XIV. Into another kind of country

Startled, I awake. Open my eyes and quickly squeeze them shut again. Tight. So tight little bursts of red flare out. There’s movement. I’m moving. No, not me personally. I’m just sitting really. Yet moving all the same. The constant hum of motion. A background whir. Feverish. The seat is vibrating beneath me. Sticky against my buttocks. The feel of hot vinyl. My eyes still shut, I lean back. To see where I’ll land. There’s a headrest. It’s cold against the back of my neck. And greasy. A thick film of grease. I take a deep breath, trying to orient myself. The air is pungent with odors. They come in waves, mingling at the edges. The strongest, a concoction of piss and beer and engine fumes. Followed by must and perspiration, bodies on a long journey, fermenting. Wheat gone to rot. As well, there are sounds all around me: hacking coughs; an explosion of manic laughter; a guitar strumming; children screaming; the dull thud of music pumping through i-Pod earphones; and somewhere, faint scratching—like fingernails on plaster or something similar. The noises—except for the scratching—are familiar. And I know then, without having to open my eyes, where I am. I’ve been there before. On a bus. On a transport vehicle for moving fairly large quantities of people from one place to another. An empty pop can rattles across the floor—rushing forward when the bus stops, slithering back when the bus starts up again. I open my eyes at last, staring at the ceiling. Luggage compartments, metal framework, escape hatches with cryptic instructions on when and what parts to push. A bus. Definitely a bus. And not your ordinary city bus either but a bus built for distance. I wonder how long I’ve been on it. There’s no telling. I look to the side—you know, sliding my eyeballs across—without actually turning my head. A woman’s asleep in the seat next to me, her head practically on my shoulder. She’s breathing through her mouth. I can feel her breath in my ear. It’s hot and slightly rancid. People get intimate on buses, so I’ve been told. They lose their inhibitions. I think it’s the hum, the vibration, the motion. Perhaps even the scratching. Suddenly a man’s high-pitched voice cuts in: “Knock it off, both of you! Now! Adam, do you want dinner when we get home? Do you? Then stop torturing your brother. Stop it!” This is followed by the sound of a slap. Two slaps. Rapidly. One after the other like muffled gunshots. Slowly, hoping to make it seem natural, I turn to look through the window. My reflection stands out in the grime: gaunt-faced; eyes sunken and black-hollowed; unshaven cheeks; the whole topped off by an eruption of unkempt and obviously dirty hair trying to escape from under a baseball cap. Like one of those Medusas. Or something. It could be a young face, the face of a young man. Except for the sprinkles of grey in the beard.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.