There's a lot of cars on the street. Each tire seemed to be rolling over the left part of my chest, making me shudder and feel like a pile of gravel. Listening to the white noise, I stood there like a marionette in a denim jacket, waiting for the bus, under the shadow of the sign at the Pawn Shop. Forty dollars was in my pocket and I sighed, thinking of the watch. The woman with the dark hair and huge marks on her face was friendly, kind of coughing and laughing as she took it and gave me the pawn ticket. Under the glass was all manner of trinkets. On the walls hung power tools. In the windows were musical instruments, including a shiny flute. I glanced at it as I left. The two twenties sat together in my pocket, under my fingers, like two shoes in a box.
The cars kept coming. Each one was a different color, and every driver was in a different mood. You've got the guy jamming out to Middle Eastern rah-rah pop music, extrapolating sound waves as the drummers whir up a frenzy. There's the sad woman staring straight ahead, her old hoodie hanging on her like she's on a clothesline as she clings to the steering wheel as if her hands are clothespins. There's the used car salesman with shiny hair, sitting up and driving the car with dealer plates. I even saw a cop car, with a woman with aviator shades and a very blank expression.
The cars were red, maroon, blue, grey, purple, big and black.
The watch was shiny, I think of it now and the sun glares in my eyes as I look up the street one more time.
The bus is late. But really, I don't know what time it is anymore.
A string pulls my arm, and I turn.