Crosswords
M. Poliski, EDT: 2:15 p.m. Corner of North High and 12th Street
The corner of North High and 12th Street turned out to be a bus stop. George showed up around ten after two and stood around, her arms crossed. It was a nice June day, not too hot to be obnoxious, and not cool enough to need a jacket. There weren't too many people hanging around the stop. George selected the least creepy person, a woman clutching a little purse and a shopping bag from a local deli, and asked her what time it was, and what time the next bus was coming. At two eleven, right on time, the city transit bus slowed to a stop and opened its doors with a loud hiss of air. Three or four passengers disembarked, but none of them struck George as a Poliski. It wasn't until the people loitering around the bus stop refused to move on that George got the idea that something big was going to happen. Sure enough, the passengers waiting to board didn't move. Everything seemed to pause, and then a commotion traveled to the front of the bus. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, George groaned. It figured. Her reap had to be the center of attention. Sure enough, a petite brunette in a white tank top, a black beret, and a multicolored gypsy skirt swept into view. She waited until she was down the steps before turning around. The long gauzy scarf she had wrapped around her neck swung out behind her.
"Satisfied, you rat bastard?" She asked the bus driver conversationally. "Another two twenty into your pocket."
"If you've got such a fucking problem, don't ride the fucking bus." The driver, an older man with a graying comb over, leaned wearily on the wheel.
"Tyranny. Try to save the word a little pollution and you get screwed over by the transportation system. They get you every fucking way."
"Just get out of the way so I keep this running." M. Poliski shook a fist at the driver.
"And would it kill you to arrive on time?"
"If crackpots like you wouldn't hold me up, I could keep on the fucking schedule!" M. Poliski turned to the waiting patrons.
"There you have it," she proclaimed triumphantly. "We're slaves to system. All of us! It's time to break free!" She raised a fist in the air and grinned. The show was over. George paid attention to a scabby graveling that materialized from under the bus wheels long enough to see it pull the tip of M. Pulaski's scarf along with it. This wouldn't end well. M. Poliski took up a position beside the door, lecturing the passengers getting on the bus about the dangers of giving into to "the man", her scarf in the perfect position to get tangled in the wheels.
"She does this every week," the woman with the deli bag confided to George as she joined the queue to board the bus. George nodded absently and passed by M. Poliski, walking parallel to the bus. When she reached the brunette, she attempted a smile.
"Nicely done," she managed weakly. M. Poliski smiled widely.
"Thanks. Vive le résistance, eh?" She extended a hand to George, who shook it carefully, swiping her soul at the same time. She kept walking, listening to the roar as the bus started to life. From behind her, the doors creaked shut and tires began to rumble. Over the noise of the bus pulling away, a shout rang out.
"You haven't heard the last of Madeline Polis…" The scream and accompanying thump told George that the reap had been successful. She had twenty minutes to get to Der Wafflehouse. Madeline Poliski's soul fell in step with her.
"I'm dead?"
"It would appear so."
"That bastard!" Madeline looked back at the retreating bus. "And I was finally getting a response." She looked at George. "What now?"
"Damned if I know." George shrugged. "But I can safely say you won't have to take the bus anymore."
