Two young, perhaps mentally challenged, men sit across the aisle from me on the bus.
One looks to be older, rounder, rougher around the edges, and has perpetually red eye sockets. I’ve ridden with him before and he likes to talk, motor-mouthing amiably to anyone within earshot who maintains eye contact and a half-friendly expression.
The other is younger, skinnier, and dressed in a more trendy fashion; a hip-hop black and white ensemble including a wide-brimmed, slightly askew baseball cap. They are discussing the older fellow’s domestic situation:
“So, yeah, I’m tryna get in good with her mom cause she seems kina mad that we’re still livin with her.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So I do stuff like mower lawn, washa car, take outer trash, an buy stuff.”
“Buy stuff? Like what?” Monochrome Hip-Hop raises his eyebrows and leans forward in dramatic incredulity.
“Oh, you know groceries and soda, maybe some beers now an again. Clothes, shirts; one time I saw a hat atta grage sale I thought she’d like. That kina thing.”
“What about unmentionables?”
“Nah, I’m not allowed to have sex wither mom.”
“Oh, right,” Monochrome Hip-Hop nods sagely.
“So, anyway …”
That is hilarious. Too bad he’s “not allowed to have sex wither mom.” This made my morning. Oh the joys of public transportation.