Her lips were full and African
Her nose not as much
Her skin was the mocha of diaspora

She sat down and unwrapped her pink headscarf
Dotted with butterflies
Letting fall her long luxurious hair

Her bag spilled onto the seat until she found
The black thin scarf
Which pulled tight around her head in tradition

The contents of her bag went back
Content between two worlds
As she relaxed prepared for Home

I smiled that I was in on the conspiracy
She smiled that her story was not yet told

The time was entirely my own for once this day, but like any bus many of us greeted each other small fragments of intimacy. There was the man with long unkempt blonde hair who kept to himself until he got off by the Salvation Army. His seat was then taken by the woman who got on at Cooper’s Market with an armload of diapers again, but never a toddler in tow. We all had stories, but shared only what we had to.

Further down West Seventh a woman climbed on I had seen many times. Her short dark hair peaked out from under a warm but unattractive knit hat, and her coat had the look of poverty falling out of every seam. But it was her butterscotch skin that gave her a look of beauty above her unfashionable clothes, a color of all the races of the world joined together. There was a small mystery in all of this, a series of stories that added up to a life. I only knew one part of it as she took the only open seat left, next to me.

“I’ve seen you before on this bus,” she said as I moved over.
“Yes, I’m on my way to get my kids.”
“They can’t ride by themselves?” She made herself more comfortable as the chill fell from her coat.
“No, my youngest is seven. I’ve seen you as well.”
“Yes, I take this to St. Kate’s”
“Forgive me for eavesdropping, but I remember hearing you say that you like the work of Hermann Hesse.” My heart stopped a moment as I took a gamble at being so forward.

She stopped a moment, and her dark eyes gradually brightened. “Yes, ‘Narcissus and Goldmund is my favorite book! I really loved it!”
“I’m more of a ‘Demian’ fan myself, but they are very similar.”
“You’ve read a lot of Hesse?”
“Everything he wrote, I think. My favorite author.”
“Mine, too! The way he expresses the conflicts within his characters and makes everything so real It changes the way I look at the world.”
“I think all good fiction is about changing the way the world looks.”
“Oh, I agree! The struggles that Goldmund goes through are both inside of him and outside, and realizing that makes the whole world more connected.”

We chatted about the themes of her favorite Hesse for a while, letting it spill out as if we might never have a chance to meet another person who understand what we were saying. It certainly had been a long time since I had. But as my stop loomed, I had to steer the conversation a bit.

“Have you ever read ‘Steppenwolf’?”
“No, I haven’t. I heard it was violent.”
“It’s a difficult work. It takes the same themes to a steeper and darker place.”
“I think I will read it.”
“Just don’t get too put off by it. Your reaction to a book is as important as what the book says.” I was pontificating, but I had a point to make.
“What do you mean?”
“Writers, good writers, have an opinion about reality. They find themselves hopping on and off of it in ways that they feel they have to explain.”

She looked at me with a hard stare, as if I was getting deep behind those dark eyes and understanding something about her that I probably wasn’t supposed to. A bus is a place for small details about our lives in public display, not close confidences.

“Are you a writer?” She asked after a long pause.
“I peck at the keyboard. I think I have something to say.”
“I’ll pick up ‘Steppenwolf’ and see what I think of it.”
“I think you’ll like it. This is my stop. See ya around.”
“Yeah, see ya.”

She moved aside to let me past, and with my thanks to the driver and a few steps I was back through the doors and into the cold. I smiled at my small attempt at playing Harry Haller. The bus rumbled off and I was alone again, my time only my own for a little while longer.

We never did exchange names.

Originally posted:
http://erikhare.wordpress.com/2008/01/10/for-madmen-only/

She starting waving her hand at him saying “yes, you are going like this” (moving hand up and down) “you are pumping the gas peddle and it is annoying to me. I don’t know why EVERY bus driver does this.” She then moved from her seat and crouched in the aisle, just behind the yellow line, staring at his foot.

Every time he moved his foot to depress or let up the gas peddle she shouted “SEE! You are doing it again. STOP IT.”

The poor bus driver tried to explain something about how the bus operated and the transmission or something but she would have none of it.

Another rider tried to explain that if every bus driver she had ever seen did this, perhaps it did have something to do with the mechanics of how you drove the bus.

I know better than to get involved in other people’s crazy.. but I couldn’t help it, she was being obnoxious and extremely rude to the driver. I had listened to her for nearly 10 minutes and I was done.

On my way off the bus at rice park, I told her “I don’t think anyone comes to your office to complain.”

Her response? She kicked me!? I am 9 months pregnant, was hungry and hot. I was in no position to be messed with. I turned and she had moved quickly to the back of the bus. Apparently I got my point across. Hope she shut up for the remainder of the ride!

But one day he got in trouble and he wasn’t even working. He was sick that day so another driver had his route. The passenger who complained thought Jim was driving that day when she reported that he had passed her house ‘even though I had my porch light on.’

When she sat down by us we were able to hear she was saying that “Jesus will rise up, yes RISE UP, and save our bowels. Our bowels will be saved from persecution by our lord and savior yes they will. Yes Jesus, rise again and save our bowels.”

To say the least, my friend and I exchanged an odd but obscure glance when we first heard what she said, but then quickly resumed our standard issue floor stare until she departed from the bus. Afterwards, we briefly looked around the bus to see if anybody else had just witnessed what we had, but nobody seemed fazed.