Words, Art, Blather

“Mum, what does God say when he sneezes?” The little boy asked.

            The weather that day was cold and uncomfortable. A slight wind was rolling through the air.

            My exposed ears ached. I suppose they were as red as the little boy’s scarf.

            His mother spoke through the thick collection of hats and scarves guarding her from the biting chill.

            I wished the bus would come early. I was late. She didn’t like it when I was late.

            “What does he say?” The mother asked. There was a trademark hint of disinterest, a common thing in mothers preparing to hear whatever drivel their little bundle of joy was about to say.

            “Nothing, mum. God doesn’t sneeze because he’s perfect. That’s what Father Jacob told me.”

            God doesn’t sneeze because he’s perfect. I would say that kids just say the sweetest little things. But he was quoting an adult. Somewhere, there’s a guy telling kids “God doesn’t sneeze, because he’s perfect”.

            I’d like to find that guy and show him just how “perfect” god can be.

            My bus rolled up and I breathed a sigh of relief. No more of this bull.

            I turned to the little boy as the doors of my public transit savior opened with a squeak and a hiss. I got right in his little pasty face. “Ah-choo,” I said.

The bus ride was not as unbearable as usual. Sure, you had your grizzled, half-asleep schmucks (me included), all with their rags and alcohol cologne. An old woman chattered on her cell phone beside me.

            “I don’t care whatever other choices you make. You’re not going to marry her.”

Ho hum. The drama that goes on in the bodies all around us. You need a trained ear to pick up on it. You also need a heaping handful of those hallmark moments of life on your own.

            The bus halts and sings its squeaky, hissing song. Two people get on.

            One is an elderly woman. The other, a young man, must be her grandson. He guides her down the aisle.

            There are no open seats. The two look at me expectantly.

            I scratch my five-o-clock shadow and let out a sigh. I lean my head back and close my eyes. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me, I think. Old peek-a-boo logic.

“Please, sir, she needs it,” The grandson says.

I keep my eyes closed. Pretend to sleep.

“Sir.”

I’m really pulling off the act now. I’ve started snoring.

“I’m sorry nan. The likes of him will get his.”

            I hear them move to the other side of the bus. I peek in between my eyelashes.

A young woman gives her seat up to the grandmother. She runs her fingers through her long black hair while she holds the pole with her other. She smiles. The young man smiles back.

            “No love in people these days,” the young man says.

            The smiling woman points at me. Her hair falls on her shoulders and spills to the sides.

            “A guy like him’s never felt love in his life.”

            It is a long way across the city to my destination. Twenty minutes come and go in what seems like seconds. The bus turns and stops. Squeaks and hisses through the labrynth. By the time I get where I’m going, the bus is full of completely different people. I’m the only one left from stop generation 413.

            The woman who sat beside me, casually telling who someone could and could not marry, has been replaced by a man around my age. He wears a deep, olive suit, and is clean shaven.

            The contrast be between his extravagance and my frayed physique is funny. Funny enough for the young couple adjacent to us to comment. “Ugly man, lovely man,” they say in a little chant.

            I decide to make conversation with the olive man.

            “Where are you headed, dressed so nice?” I ask.

            He doesn’t answer. I clear my throat. “Sir, that’s such a nice suit.”

            “Quiet, bum.” He says.

Laughter errupts from the couple. Their little chant sounds again.

            Twenty more minutes pass and the chanting couple and the olive man are gone. I’ve moved in to the window seat. I like to look at all the neon signs at night. I know I can’t be too late; the streetlights aren’t on yet.

            We stop again. This is my favorite stop. I recognize it, always. All the others are a blur to me. This one has the lights of the city. When the doors open, the smell comes in. A mix of Thai, spice, and other Asian cuisine. I don’t enjoy these foods. But it’s a familiar smell.

            A man staggers his way to the empty seat next to me. He has an offensive odor. His outfit is similar to mine: torn, stained jacket. Torn, stained pants. Fingerless gloves for the digits. Shoes scuffed and full of holes. He jerks his head to look at me and smiles. His teeth remind me of a time I saw the underside of a manhole. Unidentified muck, sticking to every molar, canine, and incisor.

            “Hello, pal. Guess we’re twins,” he says, slurring his words. He coughs and twitches, permeating the surrounding air with his rotten smell. I know he has cigarettes on him, and I am tempted to ask for one, but I’m too mad to say something neutral or nice enough.

            “I am not your god damn pal. I am not your god damn twin.”

            The rotten man laughs. “Look at us. Of course we are. We’re brothers,” he says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Brothers”

            I slap his hand away.

“Don’t you damn touch me! You’re a filthy sewer rat! You’re no one! A bum! A vulture! A parasite!” I scream.

            The four other people turn their heads with wide eyes. The bus keeps rolling.

            The man looks crestfallen. No laughing this time. “All’s I saw in you was me, that’s all.” He says. “All’s I saw was someone I thought’d be good to talk to, who’s been knowing this suffering long.”

            “Yeah? Well, things weren’t always like this, you know. I wasn’t always like you,” I say. “I was better. I am better!”

            The rotten man points a blackened finger at my chest. “Maybe you had it. But not now,” he says with a subtle smile. “I had it too once. Love.”

            I am the last one on the bus. Now we are away from the city lights, moving straight down one road that will lead me to where I’m going.

            Soon the gates come into view.

The doors part to purge the long-time passenger, me. I smell no food, but the cold. A clean, icy smell.

            I nod at the driver and step out onto the sidewalk. With a roar and puff of exhaust, I’m alone. I gaze up at the tall, iron gate.

            I feel bad that I didn’t have time to bring flowers to leave her.