Thursday, May 22, 2003

Imagined: He’s hauling ass like

Imagined:

He’s hauling ass like people only haul it in the morning.  Despite the crisp creases in his pants and the pleats down his pelvis, he’s getting his knees up good and high with every stride.  He weaves skillfully across six lanes of traffic; I watch him turn the corner and strive for the doors as they close in his face, inches from his outstretched fingers.  Undaunted, he starts running again, heading for the next stop and betting traffic is slower than he is.  The bag over his shoulders bounces cheerfully as he hurls himself across another intersection, down a block of pedestrians, dancing around an obstacle course of preschool kinds and drunkards, reaching the next stop at the same time as we do on the bus; he lets some pushy old women elbow him aside at the door and then, flushed and panting, climbs in and takes a seat. 

His sholders heave; his hands shake as he pulls out a large, archaic cell phone.  I can’t hear the start of his conversation but I can feel his tension.  Phrases filter over to me: “I’m on the bus now… it’s not my fault… I ran three blocks… I’ve got it under control… He’s there now?  I’ll be in in 15 minutes.  Damnit I got up early today… No, I… I can fix it ... (a few moments of silence elapse, his face utterly blank as he listens to the voice in his ear) ... Yeah, okay.  Okay.  As soon as I get there.  Fifteen minutes.  Thank you.  Thank you.  Sir.”

He terminates the call like he’s on Jupiter, like he’s lightyears from where he wants to be, where he belongs; like he’s 300 pounds heavier, like the ground beneath his feet could just yawn open and suck him under.  He presses his forehead into his knuckles.  His head swivels suddenly.  Our eyes lock.  His face glistens with sweat that now runs freely into his freshly pressed shirt collar.  He’s on the verge of tears.  Emotion wells in his eyes as he finds his voice, cracking and drawn; he tells me, panting, “It wasn’t my fault.”

I can’t look away from him.  We sit silently for a moment but something needs to be said; the silence is a little short, too empty and unresolved.  I speak without thinking much: “Was it ever?  Your fault?” He looks back down at his knees and his face drips into his lap.