Thursday, April 29, 2004
What He Told Her at the Door
This is the second story about hearing and not hearing on the bus. Where’s the first story, you ask? Immediately below this one. Like hell I’m going through the trouble of making a link for that.
And sometimes I realize that I’m missing something with the headphones....
She got on in the theater district with a bunch of art students who toted bulky portfolios and well-honed ennui; she glimmered unmistakeably among them despite her clear avoidance of any effort. She carried a small plastic shopping bag with a box of cereal in it, wore a long plain grey coat and no makeup - except a French pedicure revealed by her delicate sandals. Her hair hung straight and unstyled, pure gold. Her face was the classic scandanavian ideal: small perfect features, icy blue eyes. She sat across from me and kept to herself. As other riders boarded and swarmed around her - art students, tenderloin drunks and hustlers, concertgoers heading home from Davies in the suits they wore to work - she sat like rock candy, a fructified gemstone, eyes on the road or in her lap, hands demurely folded. She spoke to no one and no one spoke to her.
He got on at Divis with a diverse bunch of people, but he was unique among them. He was young, like her, with glossy black hair that fell to his shoulders in thick waves. He was slim and tall, as was she, with a large refined nose and big soulful eyes. He wore a light jacket, dark cords, and thoroughly scuffed cordovan oxfords on surprisingly long feet. He toted three bags: a battered and stained wheeled suitcase, on which he had tenuously slung a filthy shapeless green duffle - very fully packed; he also juggled a large disreputable black backpack. He really had to wrestle to get up the stairs onto the bus with these clumsy items; once he’d paid his fare he continued to struggle, dragging his luggage down the aisle. He reached the empty seat next to her and began, with elaborate thoughtfulness, to stack his load into an obviously unstable pyramid.
I had noticed that he’d honed in on her even before he’d paid his fare, though he was trying resolutely to act too cool to notice how beautiful she was. Regardless, as he flopped and tossed his bags into formation he stole glances at her that were just a bit more probing than they needed to be. The bags were recalcitrant, they tumbled and slumped, and he responded with ever-increasing physical manifestations of careful mental activity like hand gestures and body language. Without warning he slung the backpack around improvidently and almost brained her. Though I wore headphones, I could see - he apologized, using his special “sexy” gaze; she demurely demurred. He proffered a few words; her response was visibly both courteous and curt. He sat next to her, his long legs draped over two bags in the aisle and the backpack on his lap. He began to turn toward her.
The bus suddenly halted. The backpack flew off his lap, cannonballed freely up the aisle nearly to the driver. I clenched down my laughter but my eyes momentarily met hers and we acknowledged the entertainment value of the over-packed romantic klutz. He leapt up to retrieve his errant backpack and, returning, restacked all three bags, this way, then that way.... He stood next to the bags and then paused, evaluating the pieces of his puzzle. Then he reorganized them again, putting some on their sides, leaning them into each other. Finally, he sighed deeply and briefly performed some kind of yoga-ninja move, up on one leg, hands entwined before him - then he sat down on the bags he’d stacked, right in the aisle. His moody eyes were hungry for more of her, but he couldn’t really see her since he was sitting next to her but in front of her. He tried to play it cool, teetering on his valise, one leg insouciantly crossed over the other.
She got up at Arguello, headed off the bus with her bag of Special K. As she pushed through the doors he stopped her with a word and a hand on her sleeve. She turned in the open doorway in response, her face a blank canvas. He said a few more words, lightly shaking his dark ringlets. With sterile and practiced diplomacy she responded briefly and slipped between the doors just as they slammed shut. As he turned back around away from the door, his eyes met mine; I gave him one of those looks of noncommital acknowledgement and he closed his eyes with a yogi’s concentration.
I’d had on my headphones all this time. I have no idea what words they exchanged with each other. I wonder, if I ever see her again, if I’ll still be curious enough to ask her.
