Two Boys on the Bus
Image via sfmta.com
by Philip Harris
“Take this,” one boy says to the other, handing him a shoebox.
“Ay, eighty dollars, right now. I’ll give you eighty dollars for these.”
“Nah.”
“Hundred.”
“Nah, I just got ‘em.”
“Cool.”
“Ay, I saw them on eBay. So I could get them again. I see my size all the time.”
“I’ve never felt so small in my whole life.”
“But you’re tall.”
“I remember when I met you. You were wearing those Nikes.”
“Yeah, I remember when I first saw you, I thought you were mad at me. You always looked so serious.”
“I didn’t remember who you were unless you were wearing those fuckin’ shoes. Then Jay told me your name was Jordan.”
“Ay, that guy’s mom died.”
“What?”
“For real. OD’d last weekend. That’s what I heard. I saw him. He said he was feeling better.”
“No, that didn’t happen. No.”
“Someone in my English class told me. Then I saw him and I was like, ‘Ay, you okay?’ and he said he was better.”
“Man, I don’t even know what I would do. Like, I’d be s-s-s—I’m stuttering just thinking about that shit.”
“I would be like, irritated at everything. I mean… that’s all I got.”
“I would just be walking around like another person, like changed for life.”
“I’m not trying to front, but I would be like really mad. Angry at everything. I wouldn’t even cry.” He pauses. “Like, I think I would cry a month later. That shit doesn’t always hit you right away.” The bus stops. “Yo, watch how I’m about to slip off this bus so easy.”
“You have to push.”
“That’s what I’m saying. You gotta push.”
They get up. The boy with the shoebox puts it under his arm.
“Yo, y’all better start moving.”
The Tusk 
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