I looked down at my feet. I feel it necessary. I checked the sock color match. I don't know why I bother. I wouldn't have time to return home to fix any errors prompted by my rush to catch my morning bus.
Immediately in front of my shoes I noticed a hand-painted message on the curb.
"B.S.", it declared. And if any doubt remained, the message was punctuated with an arrow pointing at me.
I don't know why I had not noticed the message before. The white paint didn't look particularly fresh, but it didn't look faded or worn either -- a timeless message.
As I puzzled over whether to take the message personally, I noticed that across the street was an identical message -- "B.S." -- but with the arrow pointing away from me and toward the sidewalk on that side of the street. No one was standing there.
It all seemed an amateurish relative of the "art" I have found stenciled on the Midtown sidewalks during my afternoon walks. The artists in this suburban wasteland don't have the opportunities of the lawnless hoards of the city. No, here one is more likely to find street art limited to the coded messages telling ditch diggers an area is free from underground utilities.
When the bus stopped I boarded and took my customary seat in the elevated section at the rear. I took out my notepad and scribbled my B.S. thoughts and then I took out my book and read for the remainder of the trip to work.