Timing is important. Take the bus schedule for the #2 from the kiosks on the mall, walk the length of the sidewalk as rush hour begins and commuters stream from buildings with shining floor to ceiling windows like pigeons from the ledges of the older stone remnants of the 1900s.

Do not descend into the subway: the Underworld will not take you. Today, you must find the Angel of the Journeys.

Wait until three #2s have passed the stop at the end of the transit mall: take the fourth, the one called Express, whose timetable is not published in your schedule. They will not want fare: the bus driver will have no face, and each businessman, businesswoman, each janitorial worker, fast food employee, each high-end clothing boutique salesperson, shall be as indistinct and unremarkable as the other.

You too are unremarkable. No one will share your seat. No one will speak to you.

Take the #2 Express out of downtown, and down the long, smooth expanse of the freeway shoulder. It will travel faster than the frozen packs of cars: it will travel as the sun sets into the horizon.

The bus will not stop. You may doze: it is a long way, and dim. When you wake in fits and starts as the bus brakes, now and then, passengers will thin.

In time, you will come to another downtown in an empty bus, and exit out the back when it stops at another airport. The skyscrapers are dark: all but one, with a marble lobby lit by chandeliers gleaming in ivory vaults.

The night watchman at the security desk will stop you if you hesitate. Commit to your intrusion. Stride with confidence across the tile through the lobby, through the elevator lobby, to the restrooms. The third door is not janitorial: it is the way to the utility room, left conveniently unlocked.

Take the cargo elevator to the 10th floor, and the cement staircase to the roof.

Out there in the dark, wings dappled with the light of distant windows, of red signal lights, the Angel waits with your timetable, your tickets, your itinerary for nothing less than the future.

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