“Wait a minute. Come back here. You can’t get on the bus with that.”

The ticket in my hand looks pretty normal to me. Maybe a different color, but other than that it looks just like the one I used yesterday, and the day before.

“I’m sorry?”

“You can’t use that – it expired at nine thirty this morning – see?”

But I really don’t see, because I received the ticket in the morning, and on the back it says it’s good for all day.

“But this is the same ticket I always use, and I’ve never had a problem getting on the bus before.”

He looks very angry. Not good.

Just a misunderstanding. I can fix it.

“Look,” he snatches the precious slip from my hands, and crumples it between two fingers. I cringe. “Either pay the fair or get off the bus.”

No problem.

I open my wallet. No, wait – it is a problem actually –
“I don’t have any more money…”

“Then Get Off My Bus!”

He gives me the look of death. You know it - you’ve seen it before. It usually induces tears. My breath stutters, and words fail, I turn, defeated, and step back to the curb. I stand and watch in discouragement, as the bus abandons me to evening’s shadows.

Now what? That was the last bus of the day.

I look at my shoes, then I look down the street. I shrug my shoulders, adjust my bag, and start my journey.


An hour and a half later I throw my keys on the counter, kick off my shoes, and lay down on the couch – thankful for the forced excursion. Seattle is a beautiful place. Laden with wild, dark pines, the ocean dancing against the sky, and the smell of damp earth, deep woods , and tart berries – a mixture from my childhood that makes me want to run barefoot, and stirs an ache for home, like nothing ever has before. I think I can like it here. I’m going to be okay.