Thursday

maddog

Poppin' fizzies like it's hot, Maddog saunters towards the open bus door. The bus driver, five minutes late and pushing traffic, begins to pull away from the curb the moment the doors suck shut. Maddog shoves a crumpled dollar bill in the machine while juggling a medium sized taxidermied dog under her other arm.

"You can't bring no dead animals on the bus"

"This isn't a dead animal. It's a prop"

She drops two more quarters, 'clink, clink' and turns towards the bus full of people. Her eyes scan the riders, looking for a sign of life.

Her large, puffy black coat makes swishing noises as she makes her way down the aisle. One open seat--next to me. I make room for her, removing my gym bag and shoving it underneath our bench. Her hair is a tangled mass of beautiful brown curls. The stuffed dog's tail gets caught in it while she sits and I automatically raise my hand to brush her hair aside. She turns towards me and glares.

"I know you, Rufio, don't be touching me with your gym bag hands"

I'm speechless. She knows me. My heart flutters a bit as I imagine Maddog, standing outside Seko's house, watching me whip bang the speed bag. She lets go of a belch and I can smell the fruit fizzies on her breath. It's the first time I've ever been less than forty feet from her. Her stature is overwhelming and I feel dwarfed by not only her beauty but her size. The dog is impeding my view of her face. I try and lean forward, elbows on my knees, but it's too obvious when I sneak glances her way.

"Don't be starin' at my props, Rufio"

"You goin' to a shoot today or somethin'?"

"Yeah. My bike busted out on 42nd and I've gotta get this dog to a photo shoot by 4"

"Why don't those production people pay for you to use a car or somethin?"

"Yo, I wouldn't get hired if I told them I didn't have a car, ok? So this is just between you and me."

A number of tired faces turn around at the sound of Maddog's booming voice. The bus suddenly takes a big slide on a long piece of black ice and we all grab for whatever we can. Maddog's taxidermied prop loosens from her hold and goes spinning down the aisle.

"Fantastic. Will someone please kick that dead dog back here?" Her voice is like thunder on a quiet summer day.

Maddog charges at the old man, trying to push the dog back with his weathered cane. Grabbing the stuffed animal by his tail she pushes the stop button and braces herself while the bus comes to a quick halt.

"Can I get a receipt?" She boldly asks the driver.

"I don't have no receipts. You want a transfer?"

"I need somethin' for my records. This is part of my work travel expense."

A nice regular, sitting in the front seat near the driver has already made out a nice, handwritten receipt for Maddog on the back of one of her food stamps.

"Here you go, honey. Don't forget to file everything by April."

I watch as her chestnut curls fly out the bus doors, a small piece catching on the side mirror. She's running now, stuffed dog under her arm. This girl's going places.