Friday, March 18, 2005

Two Coats - for better coverage

It seemed to get dark early on the evening that I saw him join my cadre of fellow busriders.  He seemed self-contained and well-adjusted, quiet and polite - the sort of person that might have a nicely parted moustache, which he did.  When he moved from the front to sit across from me, tidy and and self-contained, he bestowed a sense of order and calm on his immediate surroundings.  The beige seats and blackglassed windows took on a homey quality in his presence.  He smiled to his knees and folded his hands into a clean, hospitable tent, and I felt at ease. 

Then I made my mistake: I kept looking.

His hat: a driving cap, small-billed, tan.  A rough woven cloth in good repair.  The sort of hat that leads me to imagine the wearer has a particularly strong personality, or a particularly weak one.  These hats are almost archaic.  They demand a certain chutzpah. 

His glasses: tinted eyeglasses, perhaps aviator types, or possibly larger squared-off wire rims; he wears poorly-fitting clip-on shades over them.  No matter, many people on this bus, especially of his advanced age (perhaps in his 70s?) wear glare protection.  While his choice would not have been mine and appears a bit improvisational, I certainly do not hold it against him - even though, I note to myself, it’s already pretty dark outside.  By itself, the eyewear is hardly evidence of anything, but it does catch my eye.  I keep looking.

His face is lined but looks soft, well-groomed, not punished by overexposure, substance abuse, or manic rictus.  A kind face, the kind that makes me feel badly to be investigating it so closely.  Maybe I should just read my book instead of engaging in this visual eavesdropping.  But my book is all the way down in my sack, under the seat, and it would be such a terrible effort to go and get it.... I’ll keep on checking out the old guy.  Doesn’t harm anyone.  He wouldn’t mind or he wouldn’t be on the bus. 

He’s fairskinned, slightly small of stature, average in build.  He wears a tan windbreaker: clean, ordinary, boring.  Lightweight for the weather but he’s hardly alone in being underdressed.  Nothing to see there, time to move on. 

Flannel shirt - red and brown.  Soft, well-worn, good colors; if I owned that shirt I’d wear it a lot.  Beneath it, an orange t-shirt - an unexpected choice for him: the orange seems almost daring, a splash of color at his throat that energizes the rest of his ensemble.  Now I’m really starting to reach.  Maybe I should just go for that book, it’s good and I don’t have too much of it left....

I push on; it’s easier than reading.  Pants: Green sweats, somewhat faded, very low-key.  They’re tucked into bright green socks with white shamrocks on them.  It is not St Patrick’s day, or even that same week.  The shamrock display, so overt around the cuffs of his tired knit cotton leggings, seems incongruous.  The socks disappear into bright green converse low-rises.  Incongruity has now shifted to curiosity, and I scan back up again for more information on this man who’s so dull in his headgear and so eccentric in his footwear. 

The tan windbreaker again: the pockets, I now notice, are stuffed full with what appear to be plastic shopping bags.  His flannel shirt: the breast pocket is weighted down with something, or maybe several things - notebooks?  an electronic device of some kind?  Whatever it is or they are, they ride low in the pocket and can’t be seen, but they seem heavy, pulling the shirt out of alignment around his neck, re-orienting the collar and making the fabric on the left side drape dramatically toward his lap.  The tan windbreaker yet again: there is another coat beneath it, darker brown, possibly soiled.  Possibly extremely soiled.  He’s got it well covered-up with the windbreaker, it’s hard to tell much.  But it’s there, that much is for sure. 

I play back in my mind when I first noticed him: he’d gotten on downtown and sat up front, but then moved back to the seats across from me when, a few stops after he’d boarded, a very obviously homeless guy got on with two large dirty duffelbags.  The man in the driving cap moved promptly and quietly away from someone whom I figured smelled pretty bad, and who was, regardless, potentially unpredictable.  Lots of older folk don’t like being around the “intense” homeless, and this new guy with the filthy oversized luggage looked pretty intense to me.  I hadn’t considered at the time that maybe the man with the little cap was getting away from someone with whom he shared a shameful secret, one which he sought to conceal by distancing himself from reminders of his circumstances.  It never occurred to me at that time, but it is occurring to me now.

At one point the man with the cap, gazing serenely toward his thighs, starts humming.  His fingers begin to tap on his bony knees and he gets a bit carried away with his song, almost breaking out into full-throated chorus.  As he inhales sharply and his mouth makes ready to sing, I see him catch himself and regain propriety with a bemused smile.  I am both relieved, and sorry.  I wonder what he was going to sing. 

We are approaching a major street and he’s preparing to get off the bus, gathering himself and watching for the approaching stop.  His emerald sneakers are carefully positioned for ascention; his right hand rests on the steel pole, relaxed but prepared.  As the bus pulls to the curb and slows, he plants his feet carefully and his own forward momentum, relative to the rapidly-decellerating bus, lifts him to a standing position.  It’s one of the things that, when I notice it, makes me think that the person who’s doing it is really paying close attention to his surroundings, to the play of energies and spaces he inhabits.  It’s one of those little things that I overinterpret whenever I see it, as indicative of great depth and sophistication.  This is what I’m thinking as he lets the momentum of the ratty old bus raise him up from the hard plastic seat and thrust him forward, as he clenches that right hand just enough to provide a pivot on which he can rotate without taking a step, right down into the stairwell, down the rubberized risers, and into the suddenly-even-darker night.

This is exactly the sort of entry that I perceive as “you”—the personalization of a fellow bus rider...your thoughts, your perceptions, your observations, your feelings. I found your storytelling fascinating when I first discovered your blog almost a year ago when I read a post about a woman you observed on the bus; I am equally enthralled today. Thank you for reminding me of how I discovered a new (and dear) friend.

If you were ever a witness to a crime. I can only imagine the glee that the sketch artist would feel as they took down your description. Unless something is glaringly obvious I rarely notice it. I’m not so much a details person as I am a let’s get this the heck over person. :-)

I’m always struck by the folks that are possibly homeless but haven’t given in completely to the street.  Their struggle to maintain some dignity, some sense of normalcy, some connection with the non-homeless.  One of the things I always think of when you write about your fellow bus riders is how desperate the poor and homeless are to be seen and simply acknowledged.  You see them...and you show them to us.  Thank you.

gorgeous.

yep, what everyone else has said.  like randa, i think of these “transit tales” as “dan’s writing voice.” they’re too raw to be beautiful and too beautiful to be edgy, so whatever’s left in between - that’s where i hear these stories.  thank you for writing them.

That was great.

You have balls, dude.  I see you sitting there with your bag at your seat, watching, ever watching, this man, scribbling in your little notebook.  I see this man watching you from behind his clip-on sunglasses watching him, suspecting that you have recognized him and that you are now going to report him to the “authorities.” He knows the bus route.  He waits each day at a different stop down the line, lurking in the shadows, until, one day next week, maybe, he watches you get off the bus.