My car wouldn’t start so I walked to the McDonalds up the street and wrote in a notebook.  It was only about 9.  I was watching the little screen opposite, wondering if I ought to reward myself with McDonalds breakfast foods simply on account of having finished my work and not said anything stupid.  Then I sat there eating my soft warm biscuit sandwich and drinking the coffee until the caffeine took permanent effect.  I was going to be dull all day but I was going to be awake.

I had to ask several other McDonalds enthusiasts where a bus could be found, and then several pedestrians after that before I found the stop just next to the little Compton sign.  A young man sat next to me, looking well slept and reputable.  

I had a good seat next to a plump lady and could see the terrain out the window opposite.  The air on that bus was thin and crisp and smelled like going to work.  Then the man got on dressed as Michael Jackson, one ragged glove, his hair a little too long for Jackson of most eras and his midsection and neck much more substantial:  he was an aggressive Jackson.  He put the boom box down on the floor of the bus and sang “Bad” all the way through.

I sent some hilarious texts and looked around feeling dull and stupid but awake.  

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