the hills we walk down
it was early in the day, as far as most are concerned. too early for a young man. the bus was on time and i boarded alone after enough time at the stop to smoke a cigarette and daydream a little. nothing really great or beautiful, in fact i don't even know what it was i dreaming of. i asked the bus driver how far he goes downtown on a dollar-thirty.
"get you as far as the square, then i turn back".
"good enough,"i said.
the bus wasn't full, but filling up at a reasonable pace. i sat across from a drunken indian lady who mumbled to her self. beside me a young girl dressed for job hunting, or light shopping sat being sure to not look at
anyone on this bus. we were too much reality for her i think. maybe she needed a television. the bus filled up with regular types. veterans all clad in decorative pins on their hats touting the names of wars they killed
in, or hills they took. i can't believe they name these things. one of the veterans starts talking to me.
"where you going?" he inquired.
"just downtown."
"well this bus goes there. you got business downtown?"
"no. just going for a drink."
"well, this is my stop, you got three maybe four more to go. nice talking to you."
it was nice. there were no politics in his voice. no anger really. just a little honest desperation. i didn't feel desperate to talk, but he did and it felt alright to settle him for a minute. the back of his jacket had a
number of a hill. the bus drivers jacket had a number too. i wonder what my number would be.
the bus dropped me a close three blocks from the bar. enough time to smoke for the walk there. i turned onto the street i need to be on and walked past a construction site with three or four workers all slowly meandering about the yard. they watched me walk by and i made sure to hoof it up a bit. i wouldn't want to drag around them with nothing doing. it's like eating in front of a starving man, damn rude. they had a full day ahead of them and i was putting my time behind me as fast as they put buildings up.
in the middle of the road a man in a wheelchair sat statuesque. he slowly began to walk himself up the hill, pushing with his hands hard on the wheels, feet stepping to guide the chair. he was pushing himself up another hill in his long life. i pictured him in army green, rifle slung up on his frail shoulders, crawling through piles of his friends bodies, tripping over booby traps and dancing past landmines, flag rolled on his back, ready to claim that hill. the back of his wheelchair masked his jacket, but i am sure he was numbered.
we are all numbered. everything. our days are number, hills are numbered, monkeys and birds with red tag earings bearing numbers and dates. it is one
big study for something bigger than i care to think about today. this cold winter morning.
the bar was unexcited and mellow. two men held the bar down while trying to keep the attention of the bartender. she tried to look as if she were too busy for them. she looked around puzzled and settle for slicing lemons and drying glasses. one of the men at the bar was expelling a grand story of a wet dream dental experience.
"money talks," he said over and over. "one hundred and forty dollars cash money and i was in and out of there in under forty minutes. took that damn tooth out with a pair of pliers and little gas and sent me on my way, then they probably treated themselves to caviar for lunch on my money."
he offered the young man at the end of the bar a drink and the young man declined at first until my eyes shot at him with green bullets of jealousy.
"yeah okay, a whiskey with a back."
"no no, give him a full beer, no back on it"
the young man, moved past me and took his victory walk, strutting with the arrogance deserved for having taken that drink. i ordered my beer and sat for a moment, looking at my cigarettes. i should drink this one slow cause it was the very last of my money for the day and i don't know if i have the nerve to milk the talkative dental patient for a free one. the door opened to the bar and a postal worker came in, ordered a whiskey rocks and sat alone at the end of the bar. this happened over again a few more times,
people leaving and coming. every time the door opened i looked up to see if the old man in the wheel chair had conquered the hill yet. he would come in here for sure if he had, right? i mean, he would get thirsty, wouldn't he?
he would have a story to tell.
i never saw that man again. i hope he is over his hills soon. i hope we all are.
"get you as far as the square, then i turn back".
"good enough,"i said.
the bus wasn't full, but filling up at a reasonable pace. i sat across from a drunken indian lady who mumbled to her self. beside me a young girl dressed for job hunting, or light shopping sat being sure to not look at
anyone on this bus. we were too much reality for her i think. maybe she needed a television. the bus filled up with regular types. veterans all clad in decorative pins on their hats touting the names of wars they killed
in, or hills they took. i can't believe they name these things. one of the veterans starts talking to me.
"where you going?" he inquired.
"just downtown."
"well this bus goes there. you got business downtown?"
"no. just going for a drink."
"well, this is my stop, you got three maybe four more to go. nice talking to you."
it was nice. there were no politics in his voice. no anger really. just a little honest desperation. i didn't feel desperate to talk, but he did and it felt alright to settle him for a minute. the back of his jacket had a
number of a hill. the bus drivers jacket had a number too. i wonder what my number would be.
the bus dropped me a close three blocks from the bar. enough time to smoke for the walk there. i turned onto the street i need to be on and walked past a construction site with three or four workers all slowly meandering about the yard. they watched me walk by and i made sure to hoof it up a bit. i wouldn't want to drag around them with nothing doing. it's like eating in front of a starving man, damn rude. they had a full day ahead of them and i was putting my time behind me as fast as they put buildings up.
in the middle of the road a man in a wheelchair sat statuesque. he slowly began to walk himself up the hill, pushing with his hands hard on the wheels, feet stepping to guide the chair. he was pushing himself up another hill in his long life. i pictured him in army green, rifle slung up on his frail shoulders, crawling through piles of his friends bodies, tripping over booby traps and dancing past landmines, flag rolled on his back, ready to claim that hill. the back of his wheelchair masked his jacket, but i am sure he was numbered.
we are all numbered. everything. our days are number, hills are numbered, monkeys and birds with red tag earings bearing numbers and dates. it is one
big study for something bigger than i care to think about today. this cold winter morning.
the bar was unexcited and mellow. two men held the bar down while trying to keep the attention of the bartender. she tried to look as if she were too busy for them. she looked around puzzled and settle for slicing lemons and drying glasses. one of the men at the bar was expelling a grand story of a wet dream dental experience.
"money talks," he said over and over. "one hundred and forty dollars cash money and i was in and out of there in under forty minutes. took that damn tooth out with a pair of pliers and little gas and sent me on my way, then they probably treated themselves to caviar for lunch on my money."
he offered the young man at the end of the bar a drink and the young man declined at first until my eyes shot at him with green bullets of jealousy.
"yeah okay, a whiskey with a back."
"no no, give him a full beer, no back on it"
the young man, moved past me and took his victory walk, strutting with the arrogance deserved for having taken that drink. i ordered my beer and sat for a moment, looking at my cigarettes. i should drink this one slow cause it was the very last of my money for the day and i don't know if i have the nerve to milk the talkative dental patient for a free one. the door opened to the bar and a postal worker came in, ordered a whiskey rocks and sat alone at the end of the bar. this happened over again a few more times,
people leaving and coming. every time the door opened i looked up to see if the old man in the wheel chair had conquered the hill yet. he would come in here for sure if he had, right? i mean, he would get thirsty, wouldn't he?
he would have a story to tell.
i never saw that man again. i hope he is over his hills soon. i hope we all are.