When Pigs Fly by Bob Sanchez Page B

be near the john, which was important for a three-day trip. The bus was nearly full with people who mostly sat in their seats and read magazines or leaned their heads back to sleep. Ace and Frosty both scratched, and Ace wondered how long before the rash went away on its own. The itching drove him like totally bughouse.
     
    This was their first big bus trip, in fact their first trip anywhere out of the state if you didn’t count sneaking up to New Hampshire to dodge the sales taxes. Ace felt he saved even more money by stealing from a tax-free establishment, though he wasn’t altogether positive that logic worked. It was Frosty’s contention that stealing in New Hampshire was how you saved the five percent sales tax.
     
    Frosty closed his eyes, and the lights from the bus station shined on his face. Ace remembered the old family arguments when he was growing up, when Dad used to ask Mom if Frosty was really his kid, or if she had been knocked up by the dumb, ugly bagger at the Food Mart. Ace sighed, stretched his feet on the space next to Frosty, and closed his eyes. It had been a long day, but now they had a plan. They still both itched like a pair of mangy dogs hosting a flea convention, but sleep fell over them like a baby blanket as the bus began to move and the engine hummed a steady lullaby.
     
    After a while, he felt a hand lifting his leg, and he dreamt that Britney Spears was trying to get in his pants. She’d have to ask nice, he thought, as a girl with a cute ass and pouty lips danced across his eyelids. His foot thumped to the floor, and he just moved it out of the way without waking.
     
    There was a heavy whoosh as somebody sat down between him and Frosty, and Ace thought that Britney needed to see Jenny Craig real bad. A couple bars of Irish Spring wouldn’t hurt either, that or some Formula 409.
     
    He hit the Pause button on his dream.
     
    Ace opened his eyes and saw a large man with his hat pulled down over his face and the streetlights flicking across his ugly bulk. The guy slumped in the seat, his hands clasped on top of his head, an armpit aimed at Ace like one of those chemical weapons Iraq was supposed to have. He had a beard and a ponytail, and a green earring on the ear Ace could see. Frosty curled in the other corner, fast asleep. Ace turned away and gratefully smelled the old plastic on the seat, the hint of diesel exhaust, the touch of someone’s cologne. Probably not Britney’s, not on this bus. The idea made him smile, though, and he closed his eyes to look for the Play button on his last dream.
     
     
     
    Ace and Frosty switched buses in New York at some ungodly hour when the skies were only hinting at dawn. They walked zombie-like with their coffee cups to where the bus lady pointed them, appalled at the number of people already awake but grateful not to be near that smelly guy on the bus. Taxicab drivers leaned on their horns and shook their fists, crowds jostled for space on the sidewalks and threaded their way across the street while cars kept trying to move. And the buildings, Ace couldn’t even see the tops of some of them. Man, this city was Boston on ‘roids.
     
    They sat in the back of the bus again, and Frosty pulled a Spiderman comic book from under his shirt. The lights were bright inside the bus, and Ace watched as people found their seats: an old black couple, three college-type girls (two babes and a dog, in Ace’s opinion), some nuns, a guy with a long beard and a little round hat on top of his head, a bald guy in a bright yellow robe. A few rows up, a gray-haired lady found her seat and opened what was either a large purse or a small duffel bag. She took out some silverware and a cloth napkin rolled up and tied with a ribbon, then spread it on her lap. Then she took out a large plate, peeled off the aluminum foil and started to eat a turkey dinner complete with gravy and cranberry sauce. Ace looked at them like they were all silent partners in a great adventure,