day.”
Eugene hated the walk to the bus stop, six blocks, and he hated that he had to stop at the garbage bin by P.S. 101 and throw out the bag his lunch came in because then he had to just dump his sandwich and chips and drink in his backpack and sometimes they opened up and made a mess.
He hated how heavy his backpack was, big textbooks he never cracked, binders full of loose leaf, his sneakers on gym days. The zipper stressed so hard that its teeth pressed out.
He hated standing at the bus stop, under the El, waiting for the B1. He hated the cars driving by. He wished Sweat would just pick him up. He hated the buses, the way they pulled up and wheezed, the way they lowered themselves to you, and he hated every bus driver on the route. He knew them all, a fat black lady, a skinny Chinese guy, a not-Italian white guy with teeth like brown pebbles, another not-Italian white guy with a bushy red chin beard and dry skin around his nose. He hated showing the driver his bus pass, taking out his flimsy Velcro wallet and flashing it, the driver always saying, even after they got to know him, to take it out and hand it over and then inspecting it closely as if he’d take the time to fake it, as if he’d be on the fucking bus if he didn’t have to be.
He hated the wheelchair lady that always seemed to be getting on the bus the same time as him no matter when he got there. Getting on and off buses was pretty much all she did with her life, as far as he could tell. She was there in the afternoons, too. He hated the process of getting her on the bus, the way the driver put on the hazards, stopped up traffic, got out with a big ring of keys, went around to the back of the bus, and turned the rear steps into a lift. It was sort of amazing the first time Eugene saw it but now he was sick of it. The lift went up slowly, and Eugene stared at the lady’s peg-leg, her dirty wheelchair, her shopping bags, and her crusty hat with a pigeon feather in it. He hated that the bus driver had to kick people out of the handicapped section and then scoop up the row of seats to strap her in. Wheelchair Lady gave the shit eye to everyone on the bus, like this was her privilege and they should be happy no matter how long it took. Sometimes it took ten minutes, the driver struggling with the straps, Wheelchair Lady not cooperating, others standing around, checking their cell phones and watches, cars behind the bus beeping. When it was finally done, the driver fixed the rear steps, went back to the front of the bus and got it moving. Inevitably, though, Wheelchair Lady would signal for a stop by Eighteenth Avenue. She was never on for more than two or three stops and then the whole process happened in reverse. Other OLN students didn’t really get on until they hit Dyker Heights so Eugene was alone in witnessing this, his headphones on, blasting hip-hop, trying to drown it all out.
He hated the long ride to school, stopping at almost every corner, it seemed. He hated when other guys from the school finally did get on: Jimmy Tanico, Billy Morris, Chris Burke, Tony Volpe, Zip Maroney, Petey Salerno. Then he had to act with them, swagger, when all he wanted to do was let the music wake him up.
He hated arriving at school, boys gathered around outside the front gate, an army of buses coming from fifty different neighborhoods shivering at the curb, the juniors and seniors pulled up in their cars across the street, girls from Kearney and Fontbonne in their front seats putting on makeup, chewing gum, turning up the radio. Eugene hated making his way through the crowd, up the front steps, and passing under the sign that said THE TRUTH SHALL MAKE YOU FREE. Fuck truth were they talking about? He hated the glass case in the main alcove that was a monument to Chris Mullin, the school’s most famous alum. Mullin’s high school picture was blown up. So were his OLN team picture, a shot of him mid-three in a St. John’s-Georgetown Big East tourney game, an
Eugene hated the walk to the bus stop, six blocks, and he hated that he had to stop at the garbage bin by P.S. 101 and throw out the bag his lunch came in because then he had to just dump his sandwich and chips and drink in his backpack and sometimes they opened up and made a mess.
He hated how heavy his backpack was, big textbooks he never cracked, binders full of loose leaf, his sneakers on gym days. The zipper stressed so hard that its teeth pressed out.
He hated standing at the bus stop, under the El, waiting for the B1. He hated the cars driving by. He wished Sweat would just pick him up. He hated the buses, the way they pulled up and wheezed, the way they lowered themselves to you, and he hated every bus driver on the route. He knew them all, a fat black lady, a skinny Chinese guy, a not-Italian white guy with teeth like brown pebbles, another not-Italian white guy with a bushy red chin beard and dry skin around his nose. He hated showing the driver his bus pass, taking out his flimsy Velcro wallet and flashing it, the driver always saying, even after they got to know him, to take it out and hand it over and then inspecting it closely as if he’d take the time to fake it, as if he’d be on the fucking bus if he didn’t have to be.
He hated the wheelchair lady that always seemed to be getting on the bus the same time as him no matter when he got there. Getting on and off buses was pretty much all she did with her life, as far as he could tell. She was there in the afternoons, too. He hated the process of getting her on the bus, the way the driver put on the hazards, stopped up traffic, got out with a big ring of keys, went around to the back of the bus, and turned the rear steps into a lift. It was sort of amazing the first time Eugene saw it but now he was sick of it. The lift went up slowly, and Eugene stared at the lady’s peg-leg, her dirty wheelchair, her shopping bags, and her crusty hat with a pigeon feather in it. He hated that the bus driver had to kick people out of the handicapped section and then scoop up the row of seats to strap her in. Wheelchair Lady gave the shit eye to everyone on the bus, like this was her privilege and they should be happy no matter how long it took. Sometimes it took ten minutes, the driver struggling with the straps, Wheelchair Lady not cooperating, others standing around, checking their cell phones and watches, cars behind the bus beeping. When it was finally done, the driver fixed the rear steps, went back to the front of the bus and got it moving. Inevitably, though, Wheelchair Lady would signal for a stop by Eighteenth Avenue. She was never on for more than two or three stops and then the whole process happened in reverse. Other OLN students didn’t really get on until they hit Dyker Heights so Eugene was alone in witnessing this, his headphones on, blasting hip-hop, trying to drown it all out.
He hated the long ride to school, stopping at almost every corner, it seemed. He hated when other guys from the school finally did get on: Jimmy Tanico, Billy Morris, Chris Burke, Tony Volpe, Zip Maroney, Petey Salerno. Then he had to act with them, swagger, when all he wanted to do was let the music wake him up.
He hated arriving at school, boys gathered around outside the front gate, an army of buses coming from fifty different neighborhoods shivering at the curb, the juniors and seniors pulled up in their cars across the street, girls from Kearney and Fontbonne in their front seats putting on makeup, chewing gum, turning up the radio. Eugene hated making his way through the crowd, up the front steps, and passing under the sign that said THE TRUTH SHALL MAKE YOU FREE. Fuck truth were they talking about? He hated the glass case in the main alcove that was a monument to Chris Mullin, the school’s most famous alum. Mullin’s high school picture was blown up. So were his OLN team picture, a shot of him mid-three in a St. John’s-Georgetown Big East tourney game, an
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