Bus Passenger Portraits -- 2, yellow ribbon

You wouldn't expect it. Or at least I wouldn't expect it. Not of her. She climbs on the bus every morning. Her hair is always curled. Her face is always powdered. Her eyebrows are always plucked and penciled into perfect arcs. Her bleached teeth sparkle.

I wouldn't expect it, not of her, because I am prejudiced against sweatpants and uggs and girls who talk about how trashed they got on the weekend. I wouldn't expect it of her because I too often assume that a polished exterior is a shallow exterior and that a shallow exterior hides a shallow interior.

As we pull into the transfer station, she puts in her pink headphones and opens her designer purse. Her fingers disappear inside as she shifts wallet and keys, searching for something in the bottom. The man next to her looks and smiles. She has found it and pulls it out, disentangling it from the loose threads of the liner.

She holds him between her fingertips. He reclines on his plastic stomach, propped up on his plastic elbows, holding a green plastic rifle in his green plastic hands.
She is singing along to the music now, her lined and glossed lips forming the words silently. Her shadowed eyelids slide half closed and her blue eyes peer past the mascarad curtain of her eyelashes to look out the grimy bus window.

I watched her lips forming the silent words and turning her fingers turning her soldier over and over in her hands like a nun fingering the beads of a rosary.

I wouldn't heave expected it, not of her, but I knew that in her mind and in her heart she was praying for him, whoever he is.

I prayed too.

Bus Passenger Portraits -- 1, the drummer

I get a lot of enjoyment out of watching people on the bus. This is something I wrote last year about that people watching. My goal for the next week is to really see at least one person on the bus every day and then write about them here.

The Drummer

His face is a picture of concentration, eyes closed tight, thin straight nose, lips moving so slightly together and apart with the down beat. He slaps and pounds his knees and the seat next to him, alternating between palm and finger tips with his left hand. A leather brace impedes his right hand, but still he pounds away, wrist and forearm and palm rendered into one unmoving block.

I am watching from my seat in the back, but he doesn’t notice with his eyes closed tight and his head swinging and bouncing from his curved down neck. He doesn’t notice, so I watch without trying to hide my watching and I am fascinated. I am fascinated with the dirty grey stocking cap pulled down to his eyebrows. I am fascinated with the stains on the fingers of his brace, how they shine with oil and are bent back from the relentless pounding of hand on leg and seat edge. I am fascinated with the concentration and oblivion and joy.

Without opening his eyes, he pulls the cord. The bus’s breaks squeal as it stops. His eyes open and he stands up on the one and swings around the pole and out the door. As the bus pulls away, I watch him disappear behind us, and it is two more stops before I realize that my feet are still tapping to his rhythm.

college boy speak (the fraternity dialect)

In my Spanish class today, I had an interesting linguistic experience, one that didn't involve Spanish actually. Our teacher, Ambar (who I have a suspicion is younger than me) had us get into groups to review before our midterm. I ended up with three young men. Three young men who are all part of the greek system and speak in abbreviations and inside jokes and nonstandard uses of expletives. It was interesting to be a part of it. They were interesting characters. One of them, a freshman, is blonde and almost pretty. He bears a strong resemblance to Neill Patrick Harris, and has a way of looking at you just a second longer than you would expect when you say something to him. But he is not staring blankly. Just thinking.

Fraternity boy 2 has taken Spanish before, "never studied, and "can talk about anything" in Spanish as long as he is not asked to spell it. He likes to casually show off his Spanish knowledge.

Brother 3 looks like Owen Wilson and wears the biggest cubic zirconia studs that I have ever seen in both of his ears. He talks slowly.

Anyway, I sat there in between Spanish exercises and wondered what they were talking about. It was interesting.

Oh, and my ring turned my finger green today. I always thought people were exaggerating when the said that fake jewelry did that. I stand corrected.