Halloween


Halloween touched bus 41 as well. On the way home I stood squashed between what I’d call a Texan unicorn and an accountant clown. The Texan unicorn was a large, pallid woman who wore a stetson to which a pink unicorn’s horn had been affixed. From her backpack protruded two pink wings that she probably wore in town during the day. She chewed gum and worked her phone while the horn poked me every now and then. The accountant was an accountant-type who, incongruously, had a red clown’s nose pinched onto his own. Everything else about him was accountant-like — a suit, pointy shoes, a tie, and so on. As the bus filled up, I heard the driver’s voice.

“Not like that you don’t!”

A woman in gothic makeup and a wide, hooped dress was trying to board the bus. She couldn’t fit in through the door and wouldn’t fit into the aisle.

As we drove north along the I-5, I surveyed the people I could see. There was Halloween-inspired nuttiness in pockets throughout the bus. What made it weirder still was the fact that no one acknowledged the costumes worn by others or themselves. It was as though they were merely there, today, as always.




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