( dreamland )

--her eyes are closed when the bus pulls up in front of the old bowling alley, but she isn’t asleep. She’s listening.

The plastic beneath her creaks softly, while larger bodies jiggle a bit in their seats. The room tenses—rayon dresses brush against leather bags as bedraggled women pull them nearer their bodies. A few people cough. Mostly she hears voices drifting through the cracks in the door from the outside, and she wonders why people are afraid.

Another cough. Her legs are tucked safely beneath her.

She’s passed by this route on countless occasions, on her way to and from anywhere and everywhere. If she’d wanted, she could offer tours—the city was known for its tourists, anyhow, with their bright print shirts and Mickey hats. But that isn’t what she wants. Even with the distraction of glowing lights and zooming cars, spinning, spinning, spinning madly in some sick cycle carousel, her favorite was place always the alley.

From the darkness of her bedroom, she would watch it. Large neon letters glittering with whispers of yesterday, of old bowling leagues, old birthday parties, old cigarettes and smoke, while all the whole those old ragtime hipsters danced and swayed and tapped their fingers to the beat. Her eyes would drift to the sign: “Open 24 Hours,” and she would understand. Those other places, with their fast rides and cheap tricks, they could never compare. The spell could only last ‘til midnight.

...She’s always been bad at listening. Too easily, her mind begins to wander, and suddenly, she comes again crashing into the silence of the bus car.

There is a sucking noise, a vacuum, and then a melee of click-clicks and squeak-squeaks—heels and sneakers and boots against the dark, ribbed rubber of the vehicle’s floor. A few people wince. The bubble has been punctured. But it’s no worry—no sooner does the crowd diffuse among the few remaining seats that the bubble is up again, systemic, clean, sanitary.

Everyone returns to what they were doing.

Next stop, she thinks, she’ll get off, even though this is where she lives and her mom has been expecting her. But the next stop isn’t so far, not really, and the truth is, maybe she’s not quite ready to go.

And maybe, she thinks, she’ll pass by the alley on the way, and latch on to the bit of humanity still left in the city.