by the screeching and pounding of whatever was playing through the speaker. Either most were used to whatever mumbled screaming passed as lyrics, or didn't think it worth the drama that would surely erupt, upon carefully saying something along the lines that the (typically) repeated lines were less-than workplace appropriate. Gwinnie, would have brought her ear-plugs, but there was one small problem with that. She needed to hear what Chad said about the package. While transacting normal business, he leaned in a bit closer and, in his low raspy voice told her, his last day was the friday after next. He then turned his head slightly, nodding toward the speaker. "Caint deal with this anymore." His facial expression, per previous conversations, said enough - that he wasn't sure how he'd manage, then audibly added, "The Lord takes care of His own." While waiting for the cart to be brought over from another area, they chit-chatted a bit.
"Oh my stars!" Gwinnie gasped at what she may have heard, pouring from the speaker, but really didn't want to know. She then blushed, adding, "Guess i need to get with the death-metal program...Not!" Concluding their business, and a few more lines of chit-chat, she pushed her cart toward the elevator. Two other individuals, who'd just seconds ago, had passed her in the corridor, got into the car; the larger of the pair pushed the button for the door to close - before Gwinnine had a chance to wheel the small cart inside. As usual, one of the other three cars was down - and probably would remain so, for want of someone to come fix it.
On the way up, gruesome cackled to twosome something about old people calling things by obsolete names. Dear Reader, "death metal" was so 2010; wasn't even the same genre...well actually it was, only "vamp" - short for "vampire rock" was (predictably) more ear-splittingly obscene than the former had been pemitted.
Several hours later:
Fortunately, public-trans had a policy which, for passanger-safety purposes, banned any form of audio that played above annoying decibel levels. So, the bus ride, to and from, was usually reasonably quiet.
Gwin took a seat toward the back, while she preferred toward the front, an empty seat was an empty seat. Maybe, in another ten or twenty years, the fiasco of 2020 and 2021 would become forgotten - but probably not. While she didn't have a problem sharing a seat - after all, it was a bus ride, not a marriage - many took issue with sharing ... well, anything.
Settling for pm run, she mused about her evening. The curtains in one of the upstairs bedrooms were about due to be taken down and washed. They were faded, but still do-able. She'd heard enough commute and workplace conversations to figure out how and why people, who didn't intend to - fell into serious debt. Barely made minimums, as a result of keeping up with the bling-borg - yeah, the same crew who wouldn't float ya a $20 if your very life depended upon it.
Making herself a mental note to check the vac-bag before running the upstairs sweeper, which was parked behind a door in the back hallway ... oh wait, wasn't the vac sitting in the corner of the second room on the third floor? She then texted one of her daughter-in-laws, "How much do you want for the qwik-vic?"
The bus jerked. Probably someone had run a red. From the back, erupted various grumbled curses. Barely a mile or two down the highway, the, eh...language waxed louder. Ugh, she so wanted to tell them to shut up, but even to utter a polite, "Please..." would only exacerbate the snarling.
"Bing!" A second or so later, someone a few seats behind began quarreling on the cell, with what sounded like a domestic partner. Youch, that was harsh! Gwin rolling her eyes caught an ad posted along the upper part of the bus interior. Something about about an upcoming V-day rally. Pictured, of course, was a typical crowd of drabs-to-be - their face paint resembled more like an army of picts going up against rome...yeah and about as profitable. Boy, did they look mad - no candy last Valentine's...guess this one wasn't looking too promising either. In the very back, a break-up that shoulda already happened, was gearing up. Gwin was no goody-two-shoes, but if she had to hear that f-word one more time, on this trip... Ugh, not that it helped the bomb came from "mouth" sitting a seat or two away from break-up. Oh brother...
Reason Number Two to put in the papers.
"Bbluup-bbluup!" That was Gwin's cell. The text read: "Banana bread :):):), I'll bring the vic over on friday."
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