Jerk
Bus Stop. Ilium, New York. October 1985.
“Hey!”
A commuter yells. He’s looking at Commuter’s shoes. They are light brown. Have pointier toes than he likes. Broken in, so they are probably—
“Buddy, can you hear me? Hey!”
—comfortable. He hates being called that. The song’s almost over. His eyes start to move up. Commuter’s slacks are brand new. Probably going to—
“Hey, jerk!”
—an interview. Fade to Black trails off in crashing drums and guitar riffs. Dead air mixtape hiss. Endless cicada whine fills his right ear.
He needs a new name. Jerk has a certain ring to it. Better than ‘Buddy.’
Jerk pulls the headphone off his left ear and pushes up his glasses. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
He stares through the Commuter’s factory-wrinkled button-down shirt. Jerk hates when people interrupt music.
“Yeah, whatever.” Commuter looks anxious. “I need to take the 40 to—”
“The 40? 40 doesn’t stop here.” It was this Jerk’s first lie.
The synths from All Day start in his right ear, covering the phantom cicada.
“But-” Commuter’s upset. “The sign.”
“It lies. Vonnegut and 3rd, I’d hurry.”
Rapid footfalls. No thanks muttered. Gone.
Jerk puts his headphone back on and waits for his bus, synths and drum machines filling his ears before Jorgensen begins his droning delivery.
Time to go.