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I
saw him on the bus one morning with a teenage girl in braces
By
Mark Phillips
I saw him on
the bus one morning with a teenage girl in braces.
Bus:
shoulder-to-shoulder in the morning commute. Heave and lurch. Sometimes we
act like waves, sometimes we act like particles.
Girl:
adoring look, sits unsteadily in his lap, drunk, nodding. With a jerk she
snaps her head up, breaks into a metal grin. "I can't believe
they didn't card me!" Pink morning light sparkles like ruby from
polished steel teeth.
Him: lank
hair swept back. Mid thirties, I think, but looks older. Smells, doesn't
shower much. Puts his hand over her mouth. If you watch closely you'll
catch him sneaking nervous glances at the passengers.
Me: stare
him dead in the face, wait for him to notice.
He does. He
recognizes me. He snaps fully awake. I have his complete attention. Eyes
wide. What will I do? He doesn't know me well, but, he knows that I now
own him, from greasy receding hairline to rancid piss-stained tennis
shoes.
What will I
do? Nothing, of course. She has every right to choose her lovers. She'll
find out about him some other way. She wouldn't listen anyway, if it came
from me.
Summer, 1989. Law library, 15th floor, Pac Bell
building at 90 New Montgomery. My coworker arrives late. "Don't be
so chipper today," she says.
What? Don't be what?
Everyday I struggle to put one foot in front of the
other, to lift the fork from the plate, to stay inside on the 15th floor
without hurling myself into space. I move to where she can't see, face
pressed against thick cold glass, looking north-west toward the
Tenderloin. She's there somewhere, I think.
What? Don't be what?
Copyright ©
2002 Mark Phillips
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