Today I waited nearly an hour for the bus. Next to me, in the canopy's shade, a group of older women chatted and complained about the wait. They were in their fifties or sixties. No more youth, no more attraction, no more fear, at that age.
A younger woman, about thirty or so, approached, her son in tow. She knew one of the older women and approached to share bisoux and pleasantries. The boy, about seven, with a round face and precocious, blooming personality, tilted his head to get bisous, too. "Bonjour bonjou," he said, making the older women laugh. They giggled, how quick, how flirtatious he was already. The mother didn't like that they laughed.
After a polite amount of conversation, she moved over to another canopy to fit into the shade no one had made for them under the first, tugging her son along. He turned back to the older woman he knew to send her a symbol with his hands, with his thumb, pointer finger and pinkie. Some experts maintain that this is a satanic sign for hexing. Others counter it has been co-opted to mean "I (L)ove U". Whatever it meant to the child, it set the older women to laughing again. Whatever it meant to the older women, it set the mother off. She yanked his arm and yelled she'd told him not to do that. The older women settled into scolding and complaining about kids these days.
"It's all gang signs with them."
"They must learn it at school."
"I never tolerated things like that with my children."
"Oh, no, never ... "
They conspicuously turned to look and gesture and the mother-son pair under the next canopy. After a few moments, the boy must have committed anther betise, because a smack and then a slow cry were heard.
"Ah, good, he's spanked him."
"Oh, thank goodness."
"Kids need it, especially these days."
"Oh, I always spanked my kids. I kept my wooden spoon in my purse at all times."
"All the time!"
"Always."
"Can you believe it, one time a woman told me, 'Oh, he's too handsome it spank', about my son! I had a mind to hit her with the spoon, too."
"Oh, unbelievable ... "
They continued on, still turning their disdainful regards towards the younger pair from time to time.
After several minutes, a driver mounted the bus they were all waiting for and began preparations to leave. He struggled for longer than usual with the controls. The older women began to complain. Words like "tébé" and even "milanez" began to be thrown around as they gathered up their shopping bags and Easter flowers and moved closer together.
Two young women, maybe in their teens or early twenties, chins held high, walked around the slowly assembling mass, toeing up to the line where the bus would pull up.
"What's this?"
"That's not how things are done, girls."
"We've been here for an hour, and you just got here ten minutes ago. You have to let us on first!"
The young women arched their brows at each other, but did not look behind them, making it clear they had no intention of allowing anyone to pass in front of them.
Once the bus pulled up and the young women jumped on, the older women resorted to calling them insults. As they each mounted they complained of the youth these days, how rude young people were, how kids had learned no respect. Surely their mothers had not kept their wooden spoons on them enough. All the while, the older women pressed each other so that, as each one stepped up into the bus, the one right behind was clipped on the chin by the first's bag. They scurried on to grab the handicapped seats, not hesitating to chide any youth that seemed hurried to get on.
Just before the bus pulled out, an old woman, a real granmoun, got onto the bus, her back bowed by her flowers, her little grocery bag, or perhaps just her age. No one spoke to her or got up. She stumbled into the back seat just as the bus pulled out of the depot.
No comments:
Post a Comment