Even the pushy Deputy Sheriff that worked the desk all of the time commented that I might want to read up on child labor laws.Mom said, "By the time l...ttle John gets big enough to work on the farm, it will probably be illegal to use one of your kids under eighteen to help out. I heard a man can't let his kids work on the farm, even chores, before they are sixteen. Heck, my kids helped with chores from the time they were five or six. Picking eggs up was first, then putting hay out, followed by. She was only a couple of years older than I was, but the years had been somewhat less than kind. Her bread and butter was giving blow jobs, which she seemed to be really very good at, but she would pull a threesome if asked, and even run the odd train if the money was right. Money was always an issue to her as she was apparently always just on the verge of living out on the street, utterly homeless.Since I was now working more than a few late nights myself, it wasn't hard to pretend to casually. It wasn’t quite light yet so I turned my overhead light on and read for an hour.The bus I’m on isn’t an express. But it only stops at the major cities along the route. Our first stop is Atlanta. By the time we got to the station there I was already tired of reading. I put my book down on the empty seat beside me and I stared out the window at the frightful traffic. I was thankful I didn’t have to drive through that mess. The traffic in Atlanta is always unbelievable. You couldn’t make me live. “You look terrific.” “Am I supposed to say thank you?” Silence, save for the hum of rubber on road. Hand on gear stick tightening, black nylon stretched across thigh, seatbelt stretched across chest. Ire rising. “Maybe not, but you could stop being a stuck-up bitch.” She stares, wide mouthed. I avert my eyes, keeping them on the road. “Would you rather I said you looked like a slut?” “Why say anything at all?” “Just making conversation.” “Well don’t.” Long straight road ahead, foot down, hand.