THE MAN BEHIND THE COUNTER

 

I want to go to Buenos Aires, so I go to the bus station and talk with a well-groomed man behind the counter.

 

“Can I leave tonight?”

 

“Sure,” he says, “no problem.”

 

And there are no problems, that is, until the bus company goes on strike a half hour later. Then there are problems.

 

The handsome devil says:

-Nope.

-Nothing I can do.

-Don't look at me. 

-It's not my fault.

-No, can't return money.  

-Sorry, there are no other buses.

 

So I point to the crowd of Argentines who are being re-routed.

 

“That's different,” he says. 

 

“Yeah, why?”

 

“It just is.”

 

“So, that’s that.”

 

“Yep.”

 

Then a local film crew walks into the office. Woman reporter points the camera at me, then at the man behind the counter.

 

Suddenly, he writes me up a new ticket. Then he escorts me outside, shows me where the new bus will be tomorrow night (which is not all that complicated—it's in the exact same place as the old bus.)

 

With the TV microphone in his face he says, “And next time be here early.”  He then chuckles and taps me on the shoulder.

Observations, After

©2008 Sorrowland Press and all respective artists within.