Two Graveyards North of Wrigley

Every night I ride the same bus with the man working on his crossword puzzle two graveyards North of Wrigley Field. We don’t speak.

He is busy working. I’m busy blasting BTS in my headphones imagining all the ways I could meet them.

(I have recently fallen further into the K-pop hole there is no chance of me ever getting out. It happened on New Year’s Eve when my roommate convinced me to watch BTS go on vacation to Hawaii, and I ended up crying because they are the cutest humans in all of existence. They wrote letters to each other about how deep their bond is. They are brothers. They all started crying, and I couldn’t handle it. Now, every time I think about them, I cry.)

Every so often he doses off. Every so often, I almost cry because I heard V’s voice. I think he is nice. He has a nice person’s face. We ride along watching the snow glisten on the gravestones and the homeless finding their spot for the night. We watch the homeless man’s pants drop and are blinded by the second moon of the night. That ass connects us. We will forever be those two people on the bus that saw that man’s ass.

He reminds me of someone I used to be in close proximity with but didn’t talk to at all, the Balding Anchovy. This man doesn’t have the raw sex appeal of the Anchovy, but I assume they are both childish in nature. I hear the Anchovy is doing well with his wife and son. I miss his weird grunts every time he stood up and the way he looked at coffee. I hear his English is improving, maybe he could read this now and understand everything I wrote about him. I should delete it before he finds it. Nah, it’s okay. He’ll think it’s flattering, right?

It is only my third week living in this city, and I still don’t have a job. But I have gained unbreakable connections for the future. Me and the man on the bus. I like to think he’s a teacher. He looks like he could be a high school science teacher. Very smart and chose to use it to teach others instead of make money creating another stupid app we don’t need. That app that makes fart sounds, why?! Me and that homeless man have a connection. I’ve seen him half naked. I know more about his ass than I do his face. If he gets in an accident and only his ass is left, the police can come to me to identify that booty.

This bus ride to my temporary way of making a small amount of money is the highlight of my day. I get to sit and no one talks to me. I can ignore all the messages on Bumble. (Bumble is weird, but it helps me think of great one liners. For instance, “Pants, am I right?”) I can listen to whatever I want. I can think about other weird things to talk about to entertain people. Like, they should’ve made Baby Driver a movie about a guy that drives babies around to all of their appointments. That was a missed opportunity. Or Ron Weasley is way hotter than Harry Potter. It’s because of the lips and the face. Ron has a better face. I also have a full hour to think about the job that would get me closest to meeting BTS. Right now, I’m thinking hotel manager at the hotel by the arena. Or if I play my cards right a security guard at that arena. Maybe I could Bodyguard one of them into a relationship. So many possibilities. It is the best part of the day.

On this bus ride I don’t have to think about how I’ve applied to 20+ jobs and only had two phone interviews. I don’t have to think about that I didn’t bring food to the temporary way of making a small amount of money and will have to eat another 7-11 hot dog and hate it. Hot dogs are just bad versions of hamburgers. The only sausage people should be eating is deer sausage in gumbo with bread. Everyone should know this. If you don’t, you need help. If you know it and don’t believe it, you need more help.

The temporary way of making a small amount of money is in a beautiful building, and I definitely love the building more than I like the temporary way of making a small amount of money. It’s over one hundred years old. It has the original elevator room, a mail chute, and all the doors have the old company names on them. I geek out every time I see them. It’s like I’m working in a building modeled after the Titanic except I don’t drown to death, and there’s no sex with randos. I love you Jack, but you were a rando. The worst part of the temporary way of making a small amount of money is the TV. I have to hear five rounds of the news. That means I’ve heard the Steve Bannon story four times. Did you know that grand juries can ask any question they want? Well, I can quadruple confirm that yes, they can ask any question they want. Word. (I only did that to get to 800 words. That’s right, you have been reading 800 words of utter nonsense.)

That’s my life, two graveyards north of Wrigley.

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