Six Black Dudes on a Bus

Essay by spoonman419 July 2004

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I had gotten out of jail not ten minutes before I committed another crime. The joint's worth of weed was taped to the inside of my pants leg, small enough not to be noticed when I was patted down upon admittance to the Marion County, Indiana Juvenile Detention Center. I was very lucky, I knew, for them not to have found it for the few days I was locked away. I was just thankful to be free. I finished smoking in the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My hair was a mess. They didn't even give me a comb when I left. Bastards. As I stepped back out into the bus station, the boorish realities of my situation dawned on me. I was out of a job, a girl, cigarettes, weed and money. The few measly dollars I had when I was arrested were given back to me in the form of a check written out to someone else.

Still though, I was happy. I could be nothing less. I stood outside and bummed cigarettes from a musician who lived in Florida. He toted his bass along with his other numerous bags, and told me he could play 543 Dave Mathew's Band songs. He was a very good liar.

When my bus came I got in line and talked to a fat Mexican man named Pat from New Mexico. He was just fired from his job as a truck driver and was headed back home to see his family. He asked what I had done while I was in Indianapolis and shyly backed out of the conversation when he found out I had been locked up for theft. It was interesting, I thought, that he perceived me as a criminal; that's how I perceived him. I handed the driver...