Thursday, March 18, 2004
Rosebud
I got off the bus as usual, taking my usual note of who got off at the same stop. Sometimes I recognize my fellow central Richmond denizens, but usually I don’t. This particular night I got home a bit late and saw no familiar faces as I waited to cross the two broad busy boulevards near my home. There’s a natural winnowing effect as I move along this short route - it’s a popular stop but half the folks who get off there turn left off the bus where I turn right, then half of who’s left go north where I go south and west where I go east so by the time I’m down in the proper quadrant of the intersection, there aren’t typically too many of my buddies from the old 38 with me anymore. But her, I noticed.
I couldn’t tell if she was in her early 30s anymore, so I suspect she probably wasn’t. She was nicely dressed for the casual office, hair to her shoulders but swept sensibly back, minimally cosmeticized, sturdy leather shoes. As befits post-dusk busriding commuters, her jaw, like mine, was set almost grimly. A sharp-looking canvas briefcase was slung over one shoulder. In the opposite hand she held a single long-stemmed rose, red, festooned with baby’s breath, wrapped in clear cellophane, pointing desultorily downward.
She was waiting in the bus stairwell with me, stuck by my side across Park Presidio (the rose describing a wide crimson arc as her arm swung with her swift and serious stride), and then we waited shoulder by shoulder to cross Geary. I was intrigued. Her rose wasn’t the sort of flower one buys for oneself - it was more of a presentation piece. At the same time, she did not carry it as I’d expect a woman to carry a valued, or even marginally appreciated, gift; as we stood waiting for the second light, the fragrant knot of petals dangled almost to the stained pavement.
At the moment the light changed we both stepped off the curb, but this time she walked a little faster and got across shortly ahead of me. On the opposite corner stood a garbage can, the kind with a plate held up by posts above the opening so people couldn’t put anything much bigger than a big gulp in it. As she drew near the garbage can she swiftly and decisively stuffed the wrapped rose into it, rammed it head-first down that dank black maw. But the rose was too long to slip in easily, it got stuck and she had to force it with hard quick jabbing motions until it slid into the trash.
This had slowed her down just enough for me to catch up; as I passed her the recalcitrant flower finally submitted to her dismissal, was consumed by the darkness. We glanced at each other and she smiled shyly, giggled a tiny bit, shrugged. I felt obliged to say something, which turned out to be “That’ll show it.” We shared a perfunctory, pro forma laugh, and then our paths diverged, hers forward, mine veering south again.
And that’s all I know about that.
