a short story i recently completed.
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I got on the bus at 32nd and Woodstock. As I was paying my fare, I asked the bus driver where to get off for Fox Towers Movie Theater.
“Fourth and Main?” I asked.
“Yeah, something like that.” Helpful.
The doors closed, the bus lurched forward as the driver put her foot on the gas, and I stumbled backwards, grabbing onto the yellow pole put there for that exact purpose.
“Watch out,” the driver said, her pitch rising on the first syllable. I grumbled a thanks, stumbled into the nearest open seat, pulled out the book I was reading, and opened to the bookmarked page. Every few minutes, the bus would lurch again as it stopped, picked up passengers, and started forth again.
“Really nice homes ‘round here,” the woman sitting across from me said, her voice echoing oddly in the silent, half-full bus.
“Hm,” I replied, nodding but not lifting my eyes from the page. She was right, though. I’d been on this bus plenty of times to know without looking.
I lost track of the number of stops after only about a couple minutes. I wasn’t afraid of missing my stop. I was absorbed in the book I was reading and the music of the passing streets. I wasn’t really going anywhere.
The driver announced the next stop and I looked up. It was right around where I grew up. I turned my waist in my seat and looked at the window behind my head, counting the intersections until the street I’d lived on. When we passed it, time seemed to slow for just a moment as I looked down the road I felt somehow abandoned by. I caught a glimpse of kids playing ball in the cul-de-sac, their parents sitting in some driveway, sipping away on some drinks. Not much different from when I was that age, really. I saw what I knew to be the roof of my old house, just the same as when I lived in it, only a different color on the outside and different people inside. I’d entertained the notion before of whether my old house misses me or the echo of my laughter in its halls. We moved out seven years ago and I haven’t been back to see the house once. My mother told me they left the front doors the same, though. She was happy about that.
The bus stopped at the stop two blocks from where I grew up and the doors opened with a hiss. A lot of people got on. Fourteen. I counted. I was about to resume reading when I saw a shiny black curtain enter the bus and was instantly struck by the ferocious ease of her stance. Her back was erect, her legs long and slender. She leaned most of her weight on her left as she put $1.75 into the machine, its insatiable mouth, constantly hungry for coins. The driver handed her a ticket as she breathed a soft thanks. I pictured her blinking her eyes once, really slow. Pretending to read, I watched her walk by me and chose a seat towards the middle of the bus. And she just sat there. She didn’t take off her hat or her gloves or pull a book out of her bag. She just sat there, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like how you sit alone in a restaurant. What else? I’d call her gaze haughty, but that’s not exactly right. I just can’t think of any other word. Her gaze was haughty, but without the negative connotation. She was such a part of her surroundings yet so incredibly unique. Her beauty contrasted with the unclean fabric that clung like the plague to every seat. It was grand.
Classy. That's a better word. Or just beautiful, maybe. However overused that word may be.
I could no longer pay attention to what I was reading. I was too distracted. Go talk to her, my head urged. But I’m not that kind of person. I’d have preferred it if she came and talked to me. I’m just like that.
I stole many furtive glances at her. I’m sure she noticed. I’m not altogether subtle when it comes to staring at people. I try not to be, though, but that usually only makes it worse. I decided to not look at her for a while. Perhaps look at my book, look out the window, glance at my watch. Actions to make it seem like I was merely looking everywhere, not at her in particular, how silly to think so! I pretended to read my book for a minute or so, I leaned forward and looked at the driver, I turned around and looked out the window. Finally, I stole another glimpse of her, but she must have known it was coming because right there in my eyesight, staring straight at me, were two large, beautiful brown eyes, shaped like almonds. She didn't really wink at me, but I pretended like she did. I wasn't even entirely sure she was looking at me. Perhaps through me, or past me. Did she even see me? I thought about all the ridiculous metaphysical issues I used to struggle with; basically, Do I exist? I used to wonder if the world was still there when I closed my eyes. Sometimes I'd wonder if everyone else really did exist. Is this beautiful, perhaps too beautiful to simply be riding the 19 to downtown, girl actually here? And in that case, is she actually looking at me, processing and acknowledging my existence? And even more, recognizing the fact that I am offering her a gesture by staring at her and her then returning it? But I don't really think that way anymore. I try not to. I finally realized that it really interferes with any interpersonal interaction because I wasn't even sure if I or the other person existed. So instead, our eyes still met in midair, I gave her a warm smile. She looked down and smiled, her smile more like a smirk that really only rose on the right side. But it was lovely, it really was.
She looked up once more with her head angled slightly towards the floor of the bus, gave me another coy smile, and looked out the window, her entire presence unchanged. Her hair, sleek and black like coal, shiny like a diamond, deep like night, hadn't moved; her hat remained lightly fitted atop her head, her blouse, sweater, and jacket remained as it had been when she sat down. I decided I'd wait until the next stop, let the passengers settle down, and then I'd go up and talk to her. At least say hi or something. There was no way to be smooth and subtle now, anyway.
But I knew I wouldn't do it. I told myself I would and that I should; what's the worst thing that can happen? She (politely) asks me to return to my seat, or declines my advance, or tells me she is already seeing someone. Maybe she'll gently let me down and ask me to sit anyway, and we'll engage in a lovely, deep conversation about literature (I could use the book I was reading as a conversation starter) or...or...glasses! I wore glasses. I could ask her if she did. Or there's always the weather. Or how, with a combination of non-chalance and a good chance of luck, you could use the same bus ticket over and over again, just flash it to the driver, they don't care! Then I wondered if that made me sound like a cheap miser trying to undermine a decent, honest system that relied on the honor of its passengers. It didn't really matter, though, because, despite the fact that I knew no reasons why not to go talk to her, I knew I just wouldn't do it. When I hear the final tick of time in my head and the voice saying "Now!", I freeze. It wasn't that I couldn't talk to girls, or that I came off as awkward or creepy. I was just unable to bring myself to approach a beautiful girl I didn't know. The way I saw her just intimidated me too much. I was too afraid of getting rejected. I don't know why, really, because when I applied some pretty simple reason to the situation, the risk of gain greatly outweighed what I could lose. So she says no! Big deal. But if she lets me flirt with her, who knows what could come out of that!
I mulled all these thoughts over in my mind, all the while listening to the muffled babble of the crazy homeless lady sitting across from me who was still telling about any subject that came to mind. I let myself actually listen to her for a moment and realized that her conversation carried absolutely no semblance of pattern. It was a messy conglomeration of obvious observances coupled with personal facts, about which I cannot imagine anyone caring ("This fabric is patterned! Look how grey it is! My hair is grey. My dog's hair is grey. Grey reminds me of summer because that's when I cash all my welfare checks, which are printed on grey paper."), inappropriately-placed greetings (I must have heard her insert "How do you do?" about seven times in the middle of a story about the mailbox she had as a child), and heavy sighing hums that came from the lower regions of her throat (these she was apt to pronounce at any given time in any given sentence). Blocking out her voice ("My god this city is lovely! Portland. Port-land [she sounded out the two syllables like separate words]. A-hoy, matey! Land ho! Haha! [she let a high-pitched, schoolgirl giggle] I've lived in this city since, hmmmmmmmm, how do you do, hmmmm? I was born. Yup, I was, hmmmm, I was born here. Hmmmmm."), I made a resolution. I will go and talk to this girl. At least find out her name. I didn't give voice to the mouth that normally responds with a "No you won't". To prove my determination to myself, I placed my bookmark on the page I had stopped on, shut the book, and put it in the empty seat next to me. I looked down at the grated metal floor. At the same time, the bus pulled to an unnecessarily loud stop and hissed as the doors opened. My eyes were closed as I thought about what I was going to say and I could hear a lot of footsteps coming in and out and the rattle of coins in the ticket machine. Grunts and thanks were issued with varying degrees of sincerity. I looked up at where she was seated, but she wasn't there anymore. Her seat was now filled by a small old man in an hunting cap and glasses, his hair nearly entirely grey, a pathetic little mustache that looked glued to his sad, wrinkled face. He was alone, his eyes busy with a book. I gave him little thought. My head spun around. I looked towards the exit door of the bus; as the doors began to close, I barely caught a glimpse of a gorgeous head of black hair sweep out onto the street to dance with the cold morning breezes.
***
I turned towards the old lady again and stared blankly out the window, feeling a little emptier than I had when I boarded the bus. I was just thinking about seeing a movie, or perhaps finding a nice chair in a coffee shop and reading. As the bus struggled forward again, I looked up towards the driver's rearview mirror and her eyes met mine. She raised one eyebrow and turned around real quick.
"Weren't you going to Fourth and Main?"
"Yeah, I was." She looked back at the road. Cars were driving past and around the bus. I could see Pioneer Square out of the front windshield, sitting there complacently as always.
"Well, that was your stop then, honey. Looks like you missed it."
I inhaled, nodded, turned towards the window, and watched the city go by.
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