I never did get his name...
The bus terminal was located just outside the city. Trash piled up in the corners, ignored by mutual agreement, while the stench of urine assaulted the senses. Spray paint and advertisements decorated the interior; messages were immortalized in sharpie on every surface. Conversations echoed in the emptiness between buses.
It was permanence. The workers never evicted me; the passengers never recognized my condition. I was invisible, the specter everyone could see.
Visitors captured my attention. In the time wedged betwixt arrival and departure, they intimated what they would otherwise fail at expressing. Anonymity curtailed inhibition. Wives confessed infidelity, children confessed thievery, everyone confessed to breaking trust. Sins they could not articulate to those they had wronged they admitted to me. Anyone who would listen became a priest, and I was very good at listening
I luxuriated in their lifetimes, collecting them like treasures hidden in the deep. When intimacy is illusion, strangers are confidantes.
Six months I’d lived there, off and on, unobtrusive to the flow of traffic. Six months of stories, unaccountability, and silence.
The Greyhound roared into station at 10:00 p.m. discharging drug addicts, run-aways, and persons of questionable intent. I sat beside them, eavesdropping. There was nothing unique about this bus, this group, this day.
“Glad to be off that thing,” said the woman to my right. Layers of clothing obstructed the view of her body. Sweat streamed down her cheeks, running along the folds of skin. Age had not dimmed her eyes or spirit. Her skin was pitch pulled straight from the shipyard. “Been too damn long between stops. Hot as hell.” She paused, searching for something in her bag.
“Goin’ to New York,” she continued. “Goin’ to see my grand kids; Michael and Jacob.” She surfaced from the contents of her carry-on brandishing Ritz crackers which she began eating. I noticed when she smiled that she was toothless.
“Real excited to see my babies. Their momma moved to be with some man but he left ‘em, just like I said he would.” She spoke to no one in particular, choosing instead to address the entirety of those present. “I told her he would leave, but ain’t nobody listen to me. She’s real sorry about it now, though. Bet she wishes she would’ve listened when I told her the first time.”
Around us, the passengers began to shift away, sensing that her speech did not require their presence to be delivered. They edged off into the peripherals until at last we were alone, surrounded by benches.
“You want to see a picture of ‘em?” She asked me. Without waiting for my response, she plunged again into her purse, withdrawing a frame. Looking out from the picture were two boys. Blazoned in gold, the caption in the bottom corner read, “3 x 5 frame.”
She chatted to me for some time about all manner of things; her grand children remained a favorite topic, before shuffling off to a vending machine with which she also conversed.
A man settled to my left, grumbling, “Crazy bitch has been talkin’ about her kids the whole fucking way.” His eyes were angry. They glared at whatever part of the world was unfortunate enough to draw his attention. My pulse raced, sitting next to this man. He projected an aura of hate that made me afraid. And yet he was compelling. In retrospect, I would have liked to hear his story.
But the most beautiful black boy I have ever seen usurped my attention. He had been sleeping on the bench across from mine, his coat acting as a blanket. Awakened perhaps by the shifting of his brothers and sisters, he then sat examining me for some minutes. His eyes were sharp; they pierced me in a way that I had never experienced and I was overwhelmed by his air of understanding.
He jumped to the ground, his tennis shoes lighting up along the soles, and crossed the aisle to sit beside me. The angry man to my left continued his rant but I paid him no mind. He was unimportant.
I don’t know how long we stared at one another, drinking in the essence of our communion. I looked toward his family, his gaze following mine.
“They wouldn’t notice if I was gone,” he said. His voice was quiet, hushed as though we were in a church. “Some days, I’m not sure Momma knows my name. I get sad when I think about it.”
He turned back to me. I felt like something was about to begin, like my life was going to happen.
He asked me, “Why are you sad?” I don’t even remember answering him.
It was permanence. The workers never evicted me; the passengers never recognized my condition. I was invisible, the specter everyone could see.
Visitors captured my attention. In the time wedged betwixt arrival and departure, they intimated what they would otherwise fail at expressing. Anonymity curtailed inhibition. Wives confessed infidelity, children confessed thievery, everyone confessed to breaking trust. Sins they could not articulate to those they had wronged they admitted to me. Anyone who would listen became a priest, and I was very good at listening
I luxuriated in their lifetimes, collecting them like treasures hidden in the deep. When intimacy is illusion, strangers are confidantes.
Six months I’d lived there, off and on, unobtrusive to the flow of traffic. Six months of stories, unaccountability, and silence.
The Greyhound roared into station at 10:00 p.m. discharging drug addicts, run-aways, and persons of questionable intent. I sat beside them, eavesdropping. There was nothing unique about this bus, this group, this day.
“Glad to be off that thing,” said the woman to my right. Layers of clothing obstructed the view of her body. Sweat streamed down her cheeks, running along the folds of skin. Age had not dimmed her eyes or spirit. Her skin was pitch pulled straight from the shipyard. “Been too damn long between stops. Hot as hell.” She paused, searching for something in her bag.
“Goin’ to New York,” she continued. “Goin’ to see my grand kids; Michael and Jacob.” She surfaced from the contents of her carry-on brandishing Ritz crackers which she began eating. I noticed when she smiled that she was toothless.
“Real excited to see my babies. Their momma moved to be with some man but he left ‘em, just like I said he would.” She spoke to no one in particular, choosing instead to address the entirety of those present. “I told her he would leave, but ain’t nobody listen to me. She’s real sorry about it now, though. Bet she wishes she would’ve listened when I told her the first time.”
Around us, the passengers began to shift away, sensing that her speech did not require their presence to be delivered. They edged off into the peripherals until at last we were alone, surrounded by benches.
“You want to see a picture of ‘em?” She asked me. Without waiting for my response, she plunged again into her purse, withdrawing a frame. Looking out from the picture were two boys. Blazoned in gold, the caption in the bottom corner read, “3 x 5 frame.”
She chatted to me for some time about all manner of things; her grand children remained a favorite topic, before shuffling off to a vending machine with which she also conversed.
A man settled to my left, grumbling, “Crazy bitch has been talkin’ about her kids the whole fucking way.” His eyes were angry. They glared at whatever part of the world was unfortunate enough to draw his attention. My pulse raced, sitting next to this man. He projected an aura of hate that made me afraid. And yet he was compelling. In retrospect, I would have liked to hear his story.
But the most beautiful black boy I have ever seen usurped my attention. He had been sleeping on the bench across from mine, his coat acting as a blanket. Awakened perhaps by the shifting of his brothers and sisters, he then sat examining me for some minutes. His eyes were sharp; they pierced me in a way that I had never experienced and I was overwhelmed by his air of understanding.
He jumped to the ground, his tennis shoes lighting up along the soles, and crossed the aisle to sit beside me. The angry man to my left continued his rant but I paid him no mind. He was unimportant.
I don’t know how long we stared at one another, drinking in the essence of our communion. I looked toward his family, his gaze following mine.
“They wouldn’t notice if I was gone,” he said. His voice was quiet, hushed as though we were in a church. “Some days, I’m not sure Momma knows my name. I get sad when I think about it.”
He turned back to me. I felt like something was about to begin, like my life was going to happen.
He asked me, “Why are you sad?” I don’t even remember answering him.