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Bus Lady and the Two Knights

Bus Lady and the Two Knights
 
     She sits under the arched passage while I stand over her. My offer of a taxi to get her home is made void by my lack of pocket money. Thunder and lightning boom with torrential rain pelting the parking lot. The city bus is our only escape route.
     She gazes at the busy intersection with her eyes glued for the freedom mobile. We stand like track runners just before the gunshot signal. I yell “Go!” We race under sheets of water and electricity. The bus doors open for us soaked travelers. Even in our feminist age, she thanks me for “Ladies first.”
      Milady sits like an angel on a cloud. She gazes with her eyes focused inward. A gent rests his bottom next to her. His feelers enclose her arm and rub the pebbles of her spine as she bends like a cattail in the wind.  
     Language bubbles from his lips. He woos her with jelly bean words. She laughs and grabs his tentacles in a struggle to repel him. She frowns
and my muscles clench. She and I braved the fire from the sky together. Ours is a bond born of thunder. My Lancelot instinct springs in defense of my Guinevere’s honor. Yet another knight of the round table joins the fray. He says, “Sir, unhand that lady. Your hands are not welcome on her and my arms are trained in martial arts.”
     The elderly man replies, “Man, I’m just an old gentleman having fun. You’re making me look like an ole lecher.”
     This nobleman says, “Of course you aren’t a rogue and a scoundrel. You are indeed a gentleman. So I’m sure you’ll cease your uninvited attention to this lady.”
     “Sure, sure, now every passenger on this bus has heard it.” The hero of our bus sits down across from the lady to ensure the old gent keeps his promise.
     The good Samaritan tells me, “The bus riders are my parishioners who I impart my daily devotionals to on the way to our destinations of the soul.” He teaches me his cosmology. He sits next to me with words like stars to populate my own inner cosmos. His eyes are fiery like John the Baptist as the bus follows the golden road to home. “The moon walks were staged. A Satanic group, not Russia is the cause of America’s pit bull culture.  
They are secretly recruiting members to pit us into gladiatorial combat. Their subliminal messages are brainwashing us. It is all in the Bible” he says.
     His words are thunder in my ears. “The cosmos was but a grain of sand until God made the Big Bang happen. The universe isn’t infinite and the Lord watches from the edge. Who knows what is concealed by the government at area 51.”
     In addition to being a chivalrous champion of women he is a philosopher. Do I believe him, his imperative?
     “It was fascinating”
     “I hope enlightening” he closes.  
     Our damsel tells my new found friend, “Thank you for getting me out of that sticky situation. I know it was all in a day’s work for Christ. But even good Christians need a pat on the back for doing the right thing.” If only I’d been the one to step up to the plate.
     We pass strip malls, banks, and restaurants. Our bus careens past traffic like a drag racer on its last lap until the Golden arches welcome me home like the bridge in San Francisco after an ocean voyage to exotic cultures in faraway ports of call.
Written by goldenmyst
Published
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