"Where are my keys?"
I felt like I'd been struck by a very small, yet all too familiar, bolt of lightning. Not only could I not remember where I put them, I couldn't remember whether or not I'd had them in hand for any time since I left the dorm. It felt like they just disappeared out of my hands, to go have coffee with all my missing socks and cell phones.
"You've got to be kidding me. Just...damn."
I looked around, checked my pockets, my bag, and the nearby dealer booths, just to cover the bases, but I was fucked, and I knew it. I had dropped my keys somewhere along the three-mile route from Sandburg Hall to the Express Center, and hadn't heard them drop. So much for the tournament. With any luck, I wouldn't have to sleep under a table in the gaming room, and wouldn't have to rent a car for the ride back home.
I retraced my steps through the exhibit hall and the gaming hall, to no avail. A half-hour later, I was standing keyless in the campus bus stop. I kicked myself back to Sandburg, with Bag feeling slightly heavier than when I had departed.
A few minutes and fifty dollars later, I was kicking myself back to the bus stop, new dorm key in hand. Bag felt like it was full of rocks, but I was too angry to really feel it. At this point, I found out a nuance about metro-bus riding: buses don't arrive very often. So I baked in the bus stop oven for about an hour, until the 30-line arrived. I hopped on board, the bus took off towards town, and I soaked in some air conditioning.
I picked out a seat amidst the sounds of the bus and the voice of a young anarchist woman, who was talking about something unimportant with a spare passenger. She seemed to be the average college anarchist, who would use her superior education to throw off the bigotry of the male-dominated, sexist, capitalist, unfair world. You would think such an intellectually advanced individual would wear something other than black. Head to toe, from beret to combat boots, in ninety-eight degree weather. Viva the revolution, my ass.
I watched the worn-down houses go by, and marveled at the presence of flowers in the gardens. Actually, I was amazed that plant life existed at all in Milwaukee, with its brutal winter, and apparently, its equally brutal summer. I guess if people could live here, plants definitely could. A glimpse of the lake revealed sailboats on the water.
We hung a wide left, and made a quick stop to let on an old, if not ancient, woman. She was shrunken, balding, and didn't have the muscle strength to keep her jaw from bouncing as the 30-line made its way down towards the river. I smiled and nodded a greeting as she boarded the bus, and after settling into her seat, she thought well enough of it to blow me a kiss and flip me off with a smile, in one practiced motion.
I stifled a laugh, and went back to watching the town, and trying to figure out the route we were taking from Sandburg to the Express Center.
We moved from the residential sections into a semi-commercial section, of loft apartments, fast-food joints, and weathered pubs, wherein I figured one could find some of the coldest beer and best conversation on the planet.
"I want to Die."
I looked up from my stare, and regarded the old woman as she started talking to everyone in earshot. Her feet dangled off the floor. She jumped into the word "Die", stretching it out a bit, a little louder, and a little thicker.
"I'm still alive. It isn't fair."
Now, this was interesting. Forgetting about the route, I pretended to not pay attention to the other two people I could see.
"I want to Die. I do."
I looked back to the young anarchist, now the young, frozen anarchist, staring at this brittle old woman as if the ancient were instead carrying a bomb to back up her ranting. Don't move, don't breathe, and she might not explode. A third, nondescript woman turned the page to her newspaper. The 30-line hung a right on Ogden.
"My old man is dead, he is. I'm not dead. Why can't I be dead? It isn't fair."
The old woman continued to inflict her lament upon us, as the bus rambled South, towards the Express Center. She must have been in her nineties, and wasn't very happy about it. It was rather tragic to see this old woman lament, but after all, if she really wanted to die, there were several quadrillion gallons of Lake Michigan about four blocks away, that she could throw herself into.
The old woman departed on one of the stops near Wisconsin Avenue. She left us a parting bit of wisdom as she hobbled off the bus.
"I want to Die."
Ignorance is bliss, I thought, but only until you outlive it.
Once the 30-line and the old woman parted ways, the young anarch felt safe to move. She tried to glance around, but only managed to stifled a yell and restrain some tears. She spent the remaining fraction of her ride staring at the floor, hand clamped firmly over mouth. The young anarch left the bus somewhere on Wisconsin, to face a newly darkened day.
I re-arrived at the Express Center, bought a great brat from the hotdog stand. Sat outside the Center with Bag, plotted my next move, and the exact nature of the situation. Resigned to spending a few extra days in Milwaukee, I walked back into the Center, to play some games.