The Bus Stop X...Press
Erin Douglass
All winter long, I'd arrive at the bus stop in the thin morning light to find the L.A. X…Press spread-eagle on the bench. Rain or shine, smog or clear, there the pages would be, 900 numbers blazing.
The paper, a bounty of implants and big hair, boasts an impressive list of services: escorts, strip clubs, even "Girls Going Crazy!" Women with names like Christina T. and Miss Kitten pout from its pages. XXXs abound.
Yet it wasn't the paper's tawdriness that first caught my eye. It was its tidiness. Its deliberateness. This X…Press had been unfolded, carefully. Centered on the bench. Pages spread neat as a tablecloth.
Curious and a bit annoyed, I took to dumping the paper in the trashcan the moment I'd arrive. There, that'll show them, I'd think. But show whom? Homeless squatters? Guerilla marketers? Guys on their break at Ralphs?
Then one recent morning, the 7:04 bus nowhere in sight, a man shuffled across the street toward me and the stop. Balding and bent, he wore a well-tailored suit and white running shoes. Tucked under his arm was a newspaper.
As I watched out of the corner of my eye, he approached the bench, unfolded the paper and spread it with care on the cold, dirty surface.
It was the L.A. X…Press.
Eyebrows raised, I watched as the man slowly lowered himself onto the newspaper. With an audible sigh, he settled back, feet swinging slightly, and folded his arms across his heaving chest.
I stood there, bemused — and a bit disappointed. So our culprit is just a dirty old man, I thought, shaking my head. How ordinary. How depressing.
But then I caught a glimpse of his face.
Gone was the weariness. In its place: satisfaction.
I didn't know what to think. XXX tabloids don't exactly represent humanity's finest hour. They smack of loneliness, desperation and exploitation, whether one is selling or buying — or sitting.
But maybe this man was different. Maybe he grabbed the X…Press because it was the only paper on his way to the bus. Maybe he appreciated its non-smudging newsprint. Or the fact that it's free.
Or maybe not.
When the bus finally did rumble into view, the man rose slowly to his feet. Without a backward glance, he stepped toward the open doors and climbed stiffly aboard.
I hesitated, staring at the flattened paper on the cold morning bench.
Then I turned, hopped up the steps and grabbed a seat near the back of the bus. Someone else could toss all those Girls Going Crazy! into the trash.