In this boxed shaped compartment on wheels everyone stands too close for comfort in an assembly line. Looking through the sea of noise and strangling tongues, I can see few familiar faces. Strangers vomit their words into this dirty toilet bowl of an atmosphere. Sweaty hands hold onto the yellowing pole, three other hands latch onto this pole for dear life.
My eardrums started to ring as sharp,dirty fingernails began scratching the interior of my chirping stomach. The pounding of my heartbeat raced with anxiety and fell into the dark pit of fear like the drop of doom. The lady with a bee’s nest of hair stands hunched before me, hoisting herself onto the platform, and forgetting her posture at the grocery store. I leap two feet to get the one seat absorbed with dirt and I sit while hugging my bag. Tears of panic thunderstorm down my cheeks and melt into melancholy. The senile man behind the steering wheel smells like rotten cheese and spoiled milk. He has the sass of a fourteen year old cheerleader who for got her pom-poems at home. He slams on the breaks and my gum flies out of my mouth, landing in a woman’s bowl of brown hair.