It was three o'clock, Thursday afternoon, and I stared out the window watching people wait for a bus.

I missed her already. Prudence packed her bags the next day after the dinner party and I hadn't heard from her since. The reality was that I probablywould never hear from her again.

My other problem was that I was out of money and I couldn't dance because of my leg. I didn't need crutches anymore, but my limp was bad. Worse, my heart was broken.

Then, without warning, something came over me and I grabbed my keys and headed outside.

Two black guys talked to each other and sat on the bench, an older woman with a canvas bag filled with grocery foods sat on the edge, and a younger woman with want ads stood writing notes with a red pen.

I joined them. The young woman looked up as I settled into my place to stand. I nodded and she nodded back. The two black guys felt our nods and turned, but they didn't nod, they resumed their conversation. The older woman continued to look down the street trying to spot the bus as if that would get it there sooner.

"Excuse me," I said to the young woman, "Do you know how much the bus is? How much I need?"

The two black guys turned again, but this time with a look as if I was an idiot and just trying to hit on her. But I wasn't, I really had no idea how much the bus cost. She smiled politely and said, "A dollar and thirty-five cents."

All of sudden I did feel like an idiot because I was about to get on this bus that I now saw approaching and I had no idea where it was going, but no matter its final destination, I decided I was going to limp on.

The bus stopped and the doors blew open. The older woman and the two black guys didn't move. This wasn't their bus, but the younger woman and myself waited at the door while a few people got off. The doors sucked closed behind me as if I was vacuumed in, and I fed my fare into a slot and sat down.

We headed down Fairfax then made a right onto Pico Boulevard, heading towards the beach.

At a red light I noticed a help wanted sign in a McDonald's window. Is that where I should work? I didn't know how to do anything except dance. What happens to dancers? Are the homeless of today, the dancers of yesterday?

We kept going and then I saw something really cool, an idea that I hadn't thought of in a long time...college. Santa Monica Community College. Immediately, I pulled the stop cord and waited by the exit door.

I just strolled around the small campus knowing this was where I was supposed to be. I found the administration building and asked about registration.

The administrator stood in heels and a blue suit behind a formica counter. "Well, you're a week late, but if you get permission from the instructor, yes you can take classes. What classes do you want to take?"

"I don't know yet."

She sent me to Jim, the career counselor who was twelve years old. No, he was Older-- but not much. He was short with brown uncombed hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and big red lips. He looked at me for a while and then smiled, "You know, I think it's so cool when old people come back to school."

I thought about killing him then, but opted to let him get me registered and all before I shed his blood.