Free Fat Old Woman in Las Vegas: Gambling, Dieting and Wicked Fun by Pat Dennis Page A

Akeisha was very pretty. Her silky, flowing top and arm full of spangles glittered in the sun. A rhinestone headband circled her head, enveloping the loose ebony curls that highlighted weaves of platinum blonde hair.
    Akeisha’s make-up sparkled with glitter and even from a distance I could tell she’d carefully outlined her lips into a welcoming heart. Over her shoulder, a crackled pink vinyl tote bag hung filled with whatever. Her tunic was a purplish mixture of complementary colors. Her pants were skintight leggings of a pale mint green. As she swirled around, the cleavage on her backside was as visible as the massive one on her front.
    She shuffled in the direction of my bus. I gulped hard and looked at the empty seat next to me. It’s not that I didn’t want a large person sitting next to me. I understood too well the embarrassment and humiliation that occurs when someone overreacts to having a hefty soul as their seatmate. When I take any public transit I pray I can sit alone. I do not need a single insult, stated or silent, added to my list of perceived wrongs. That fact alone is the reason I prefer a private roomette on a train. No one but me will tell me I do not fit.
    I doubted Akeisha and I could fit into the space Greyhound provided for two riders. I’d be overflowing into her designated area as she would overflow both into mine and into the aisle. I’d be scrunched up tightly against the window. As nice as either of us would be to each other, the five-hour plus ride would be unbearable.
    As soon as Akeisha climbed on board and began to walk the aisle, purses or bags were instantly placed on seats that were previously empty. She proved herself to be a bright woman. She instinctively knew the drill. She didn’t ask anyone to remove items so she could sit down. Instead, she peered hopefully toward the back where I was sitting next to an empty seat.
    I had chosen to sit in the second to last row in the aisle. Across from me was a sleeping and very tiny woman who managed to fold herself into a horizontal position, her body huddled within the framework of the two seats. She used the armrest for her pillow. Behind me was a bench seat that could easily fit two people, if not two and a half. It was as wide as two seats and the aisle together. One end butted against the restroom wall. Only one man was sitting on the bench.
    Akeisha headed straight to it and said in a sweet tone, “Is the seat next to you taken?”
    The thirty-some year old growled, “It’s broken. You can’t sit here.”
    “What do you mean it’s …” Akeisha started. Her options for seating were becoming limited. Rumors on the Internet state that Greyhound continually oversells the capacity on their buses. If there were no seats for you to sit in, you’d have to wait for the next bus, which in some cases weren’t scheduled until the next day. Even then you weren’t guaranteed a seat.
    “It’s broken,” he sputtered back as if there were no more questions to be asked. He shoved his bags on top of any unoccupied space.
    My ’60s styled activist soared into a boil. There was no way the friggin’ bench seat could be broken. My head swirled around to protest but Akeisha had already turned her attention to the sleeping woman across from me.
    “Ma’am, I need to sit here.” Akeisha’s tone was firm.
    The somnolent sprite lifted up into an upright position. Her spiny fingers rubbed at her eyes before mumbling, “I can go sit with my husband.” She scurried out of the seat and walked toward the front. Akeisha breathed a sigh of relief and squeezed in to the small area. She scooted over to the window. She rumbled through her pink tote and pulled out an iPod. She placed the earbuds into her ears, right over her dangling birdcage earrings and looked content. As the bus pulled out, her head bopped up and down in time to the beat of music only she could hear.
    I was happy as well. We were forty-five minutes into the trip and Akeisha and I