Vapors

            Sweat dripped from his forehead on to the air conditioning unit by his feet. He removed his ratty, faded baseball hat and wiped his brow. He spotted the bus coming, so, with great effort, he scooped up the AC unit—the metal digging into his hands—and made an awkward movement with his foot to indicate to the bus that he wanted on. It pulled over to the side of the road and the door opened.
            “Route Seventeen: Northgate via Clifton,” rattled the programed voice when the door folded open.
            The bus driver, a black man in his forties with a shapely goatee and a pilot's hat, peered down at him as he struggled over to the door with the big metal box.
            “You can’t bring that on here,” the bus driver said.
            “Why not?”
            “It’s too big.”
            “Too big?”
            “Yep.”
            “Well, what I’m s’posed to do with it?”
            “I don’t know. Take it back where you got it.”
            “I ain’t walking all the way back there. This thing's heavy. C’mon, man.”
            “It’s dripping stuff out of it,” the bus driver said pointing to the wet spot on the pavement.
            “Aw, that’s just water.”
            “You can’t bring that on here, sir.”
            He dropped it onto the sidewalk, “Fuck it, then,” and started to board the bus.
            “You can’t just leave it at the bus stop either,” the bus driver said.
            “Damn, man. Why not?”
            “Cause, you can’t just leave air conditioners anywhere.”
            “What I’m s’posed to do?”
            “I don’t know, sir, but I’ll have to call somebody if you just gonna leave it at the bus stop.”
            He propped his foot on the unit and wiped his brow again.
            “Alright then,” he said.
            “What are you gonna do?”
            “I’m a wait here for the next bus. Maybe they’ll help a brother out.”
            “Suit yourself,” said the bus driver and drove away.
            He waited until the bus was out of sight and walked away empty handed.