Thank god, no one made eye contact, or said anything about it as I walked up this morning. I have to admit I’m a little nervous standing inside of the bus shelter. I keep popping my head out and looking up and down the street, waiting to see if the car will come by again. Looking at my watch, I hope the bus is on time today. “How are you doing today, Sweetie?” I feel the tug at my sweater as she speaks. It’s Mrs. Johnson. She’s 72 and in a wheelchair. I don’t think she’s all there, but she’s a wonderful lady, and the only person who has talked to me in the six months I’ve been taking this bus. “I’m doing well,” I answer, hoping she isn’t referring to the soda incident. “It’s a shame young people have to act like that,” she states. I look around to see the faces of the people who know what she is talking about. I see a few smiles and hear a couple of stifled snickers and jeers.
