Better Ways to Spend an Evening

Ronson had had a few too many, missed his bus again. So he walked along McManus and its ratty apartments, parks full of vagrants, and what not.

The walk itself might have been pleasant under different circumstances. Crescent moon, warm breeze, night full of possibility.

But his head was filled with darkness and booze. He couldn't tell where one ended and the other began, wasn't sure it even mattered.

Cars whipped past him on the left. He felt so slow compared to them, man against machine. How had he missed the bus? Or, the better question: Why could he never make it to the stop on time?

“Fuck the bus,” he muttered while kicking at pebbles on the sidewalk.

He didn't care much if anyone heard him. The vagrants all muttered to themselves anyway. It's not like they would be paying attention to him, nor he to them. Beyond threat assessment, but he was drunk and they were homeless. Leave each other alone.

Plus everyone hated the buses in this town. If it came to a fight, they'd all flock to his side for that reason alone. As rallying causes go, there were worse.

He guessed it was another 20 minutes or so to Bancroft's place over on 47th. He looked for landmarks, but every shitty part of town looked like every other shitty part of town.

Corner stores and hookers. Goddamn crescent moon overhead watching him, judging.

How had he gotten here? Not walking along McManus to meet Bancroft, who he didn't care to see in the first place, but to a place in life where this sort of thing was even an option. There must be better ways to spend an evening.

Other people had figured it out. None that he knew, but they were out there... somewhere.