My World, And Welcome To It

     My usual bus stop. The paint is forest green and chipping away in random places. The bench is covered in a geometric pattern of holes for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Although the metal looks welcoming, it’s a trap, and an experienced bus-taker knows the freezing consequences of sitting down. At this time in the morning, it’s unbelievably chilly, even in the middle of August. The dark green paint has chipped in one place to reveal a blood-red scar of graffiti that reads ‘Wiz wuz hear’. It smells like gasoline and buttered toast. A woman is sitting on the opposite end of the bench with her son, her dark hair is matted and scraggly. She looks to be in her mid thirties, but her face is weathered and worn. Her eyes have bags under them, and her face sags in places that it shouldn’t.

     The boy is small, his eyes bulge slightly, keeping him in a perpetual state of looking surprised. He holds onto the end of the woman’s shirt with one hand, and runs his fingers along the bumps and holes in the bench with the other. His mother wears a dingy purple blouse with flowers on it. She’s a big woman, but her shoulders are slumped; her hands wring themselves. Meekly smiling in my direction, she doesn’t make eye contact.

     My brow furrows. The boy fidgets, letting go of his mother’s shirt and walking around. He kicks a pebble on the sidewalk and lets out a long, exasperated sigh. She stares at my toast. I can afford to go without breakfast today. “Thank you kindly,” she says as she gives both slices to him. He sits down and smiles at me; his smile reminds me of a jack-o-lantern, with teeth missing in various places. He couldn’t be more than seven years old. With her son happily devouring his newly acquired breakfast between us, the silence is comfortable. I breathe in the cool morning air and see the trees above me.

     The bus pulls in, its air brakes flatulent in its wake; the woman’s son laughs at the sound, his mouth full of warmth. He’s less fidgety and more perked up now. He scarfs down the rest of his toast. His mom is really smiling now, something her face is clearly not used to doing. Her body relaxes just a little bit as she wipes crumbs off of his face with her sleeve, sniggering under her breath. I help her on to the bus, pay for my ticket, and look for my seat. About two rows from the back sits a woman with perfect curls, slightly smeared red lipstick, and torn leggings beneath a jet black dress. She’s beautiful; her blinks are just a bit too long. Her head bobs from side-to-side, curls dancing on the sides of her face. The bus rumbles to life and I’m jolted forward. My face flushes red and I jump into the first seat I can find. It’s the window opposite of the woman. She looks at me and smiles; her jawline is defined, and there’s the slightest hint of stubble on her chin. “Good morning” she says, her low voice confirming my suspicions. “I love your dress, squirrelfriend,” I reply, sashaying in my seat and snapping my fingers. A ‘squirrelfriend’ is what gay men call their friends who are drag queens because, to put it bluntly, they hide their nuts. She laughs, her posture relaxing. I smile and relax as well; it’s nice to interact with my own kind, a gay person, especially so early in the morning.

     The city passes us by in streaks of grey and brown. We stare out of our respective windows. The bus stops somewhere on Colfax, and a man in a black leather jacket with frayed edges steps inside. He has a long, jagged scar on his face just to the right of his nose. There is grime on his chin. His hands are covered in black streaks, like he’s been working with oil or disposing ashes. He moves his shoulders back, flexing them as he stares passengers down, searching for his seat. I avert my eyes. The queen clutches her purse a bit tighter. He has a look in his eyes that reminds me of my dog before she kills a bird or a squirrel. His strides are long and slow, methodical, searching for weakness, vulnerability. He’s not even startled by the bus’s sudden movement. He spots my queen, and sits next to her. She scoots ever-so-slightly closer to the window.

     He slaps his hand on her leg, she inhales quickly and lets out a startled squeak. He takes a deep breath. “So how ‘bout it, baby?” She doesn’t even look at him as she says, “No, thank you,” in a sickeningly sweet tone. Her voice quivers at the end of “you”. He leaves his grimy hand on her leg. I grimace as my body tenses up, readying itself for action.

     In this moment, time stops and the world becomes like a comic book. I stand up, my world now black and white, as I say “Hey man, leave her alone.” I flex my shoulders back, making myself bigger and more intimidating than him. This time, it’s his eyes that look down. This time, it’s his voice that quivers as he apologizes to me. This time, it’s he that gets off at the next stop, wishing he had never taken my bus. This time, I do the right thing. My rescued queen comes and sits next to me. Her curls smell like cinnamon and strawberries as she settles into a deep sleep, resting her head comfortably on my chest.

     The breaks squeak and I’m jolted out of the daydream. The queen stares out of the window, and I pretend she’s imagining the same scenario. Instead, I sit and watch like I always do. I am forever cursed to be a distant observer to the drama unfolding around me. Detached. As alone with my own thoughts as she must feel in this moment. As much as I want to do something, I know that I can’t. It’s not my place.

     It’s funny how our thoughts lack caution. The world in my head is one filled with only right and wrong, black and white, good and bad. Why is it so easy to accumulate good karma by giving toast to a hungry boy, but so hard to make a real difference with this drag queen? Assuming the worst possible scenario, I could potentially save her life if I could just stand up and do something. I realize that I don’t even know her name. Now that I think about it, neither will he.

     Perhaps someone will step on at the next stop and do what I can’t. We ride in uncomfortable silence. The bus stops, and Toast Boy runs up to me. “Hey dude,” he says, suddenly sauntering, making his best attempt to sound suave and cool, “thanks for the food.” I smile and shrug my shoulders. I watch Toast Boy and his mom get off, continuing with their lives.

     The queen takes deep breaths and pulls out her compact, the mirror is scratched and smeared. Through the streaks of pale make-up, I see her eyes in the reflection; they’re swollen and red. I furrow my brow and frown. She shakes her head and blinks, long and hard.

     As I get up at my destination, I steal one last glance in her direction; the man in the black coat is still there. Her purse remains clutched tightly in her right hand. She looks out the window, her gaze focusing on anything but the predator sitting next to her. I step off and turn back to face the bus as it drives away. I catch one last hint of the sun bouncing off of those crisp, perfect curls, and I pretend. I pretend that she’s pretending that I never got off.