"Come on," he persisted. "I always look at those when waiting for the bus. Sometimes there’s something cool."
"Like what?"
"Like… selling vintage dolls or buying up old jewelry," he said.
"And what's so interesting about that?" I crossed my arms.
"Aren't you curious why someone would sell a doll their great-grandmother played with? Or some old ring? There's gotta be a story behind it."
"Kid, you're seriously bored," I shook my head.
We'd been sitting at that stop for over an hour. Nothing had changed—no cars passed, no birds landed. The scenery burned itself into my memory like a dried-up tumbleweed. Leaning back against the sunbaked metal, I picked at a stubborn scrap of paper from some long-gone notice. Then the kid's earlier words echoed in my head:
"And you call yourself a creative."
"How'd you know I'm an artist?" I asked.
"It's pretty obvious you're into art," the kid mused after a pause. "You look at the world like you're sizing it up. Stare at trees forever while most people wouldn't even notice a weird branch. Only two kinds of people do that—clueless dreamers or real-deal artists."
"You're too sharp for your age, kid," I smirked.
Memories flashed through my mind—my early days as an artist. That fall when I first dared show my paintings to the world. Broke as I was, I'd painted mini-versions on flyers and plastered them around the neighborhood, scribbling my address so curious folks could see the real pieces.
People came. Not just the next day, but for weeks after—all sorts. Some just wanted to gawk, others to meet "the artist," a few even bought my work (which, hell, felt good). Later, I had to fork over half those earnings to pay fines for illegal postering. The city called it "aesthetic pollution"—never mind that ugly billboards and overflowing trash bins ruined the view way worse than my art ever could. But who was I to argue with the system?
"What're you thinking about?" The kid snapped me out of it, handing me a water bottle.
"Nothing important," I said, taking a swig. "That bus isn't coming today, is it?"
"It'll come. Definitely," Oscar said, weirdly earnest. "Just gotta be patient."
"Patient…" The word tasted bitter. "Always fucking waiting."
"Yeah, well—that's life. What can you do?" He knocked his rubber boots together with a dull thud.
Suppressing a surge of irritation, I started examining all the torn flyers, searching for at least one intact one. After about ten minutes, I found it.
"PORCELAIN FIGURINES. CUSTOM ORDERS," read a small rectangular card, with neatly handwritten phone number strips dangling below.
"Weird," I muttered.
"What is it?" the kid asked.
"The handwriting… it seems familiar."
"Maybe one of your friends makes figurines? I'd totally go to an exhibit like that."
Yeah, right… Out here in the middle of nowhere, you'd take any exhibit you could get.
I strained to recall if I’d seen that number before, but something else caught my eye—another ad I hadn’t noticed earlier.
"MOTORCYCLE FOR SALE. GOOD CONDITION."
"I remember buying my bike thanks to an ad just like this," I smiled, suddenly picturing my old steel companion. "Never regretted it for a second."
"Your parents must've worried about you," Oscar said. "My grandpa always says bikes are dangerous. That you get addicted to speed without even noticing. Not that I'd know—I've only got a bicycle, but he keeps warning me anyway."
