Startled, I awake. Open my eyes and quickly squeeze them shut again. Tight. So tight little bursts of red flare out. There’s movement. I’m moving. No, not me personally. I’m just sitting really. Yet moving all the same. The constant hum of motion. A background whir. Feverish. The seat is vibrating beneath me. Sticky against my buttocks. The feel of hot vinyl. My eyes still shut, I lean back. To see where I’ll land. There’s a headrest. It’s cold against the back of my neck. And greasy. A thick film of grease. I take a deep breath, trying to orient myself. The air is pungent with odors. They come in waves, mingling at the edges. The strongest, a concoction of piss and beer and engine fumes. Followed by must and perspiration, bodies on a long journey, fermenting. Wheat gone to rot. As well, there are sounds all around me: hacking coughs; an explosion of manic laughter; a guitar strumming; children screaming; the dull thud of music pumping through Walkman earphones; and somewhere, faint scratching – like fingernails on plaster or something similar. The noises – except for the scratching – are familiar. And I know then, without having to open my eyes, where I am. I’ve been there before. On a bus. On a transport vehicle for moving fairly large quantities of people from one place to another. An empty pop can rattles across the floor – rushing forward when the bus stops, slithering back when the bus starts up again. I open my eyes at last, staring at the ceiling. Luggage compartments, metal framework, escape hatches with cryptic instructions on when and what parts to push. A bus. Definitely a bus. And not your ordinary city bus either but a long distance bus. I wonder how long I’ve been on it. There’s no telling. I look to the side – you know, sliding my eyeballs across – without actually turning my head. A woman’s asleep in the seat next to me, her head practically on my shoulder. She’s breathing through her mouth. I can feel her breath in my ear. It’s hot and slightly rancid. People get intimate on buses, so I’ve been told. They lose their inhibitions. I think it’s the hum, the vibration, the motion. Perhaps even the scratching. Suddenly a man’s high-pitched voice cuts in: “Knock it off, both of you! Now! Adam, do you want dinner when we get home? Do you? Then stop torturing your brother. Stop it!” This is followed by the sound of a slap. Two slaps. Rapidly. One after the other like muffled gunshots. Slowly, hoping to make it seem natural, I turn to look through the window. My reflection stands out in the grime: gaunt-faced; eyes sunken and black-hollowed; unshaven cheeks; the whole topped off by an eruption of unkempt and obviously dirty hair trying to escape from under a baseball cap. Like one of those Medusas. Or something. It could be a young face, the face of a young man. Except for the sprinkles of grey in the beard. And the twin vertical lines running from the sides of the nostrils to the mouth. Frown lines--isn’t that what they call them? Through the window, I can also see the face of the woman beside me. It’s long and thin, mouth slightly open, nose red and dripping. Ruddy complexion, I guess you’d call it. The windswept prairie type. And tough. The kind that won’t take no shit from nobody. Probably a knife somewhere in that ragged, about-to-fall-apart duffel coat. Or worse: the jagged end of a beer bottle, ready to pierce an unsuspecting carotid artery. I touch my jugular, gingerly. We hit a bump. The reflection vanishes as I re-focus. Outside, the elevated highway is covered in ash-like slush. An incessant honking and screeching of brakes. We are crawling along, caught in the middle of what seems literally an endless line of vehicles. Several have pulled over onto the narrow shoulder, the tiny bit of space between the traffic lane and the waist-high retaining wall. The drivers and passengers, unmindful of the flying slush, have piled out to scream at each other. To point at their respective cars and make fists. Further out, above the cars and the people, I can see waves breaking on a shore-line. Sluggish waves. Tired and uninspired. Without any of the vigor you’d imagine waves to have. Portions having turned to ice before they can retreat. Before they can get back to the freedom of the sea. Their mother’s arms? Bosom? Belly? A woman in a yellow slicker and mauve billy boots walks along the sandy shoreline, tossing bread crumbs all around her. Large black birds appear from nowhere and swoop in. While some peck at the ground greedily, others chase the seagulls away. I’m thinking: “On the sand he drew the outline of a canoe, and he kicked it with his big toe. A canoe lay right there in the water.” Now, what the hell does that mean? Why am I thinking those words? I shrug. It can’t be important. Just bits of phrases surfacing from a dream. Maybe.
Ugly, isn’t it? says the woman in the seat beside me as she slips her arm through mine and leans even closer. So close now I can smell the aging mint on her breath, the overly-intimate rapport she has with her duffel coat. Where I come from, she continues, the waters are sweet and clear. By Jeez, you can practically walk across them they’re so pure. Freaking stomp across them they’re so crystal!
I smile and nod, not sure what she said makes any sense: I mean, wouldn’t thick, cruddy water be better for walking across? Do I know you? I want to ask. Have we met before? But somehow I realize that isn’t the appropriate response. Not the right thing to say at this moment. Instead, I continue to smile and nod – and to look back outside. We’re bumping and grinding past the stopped cars now. The cars on the shoulder. One man has the other pinned against the front door and is kneeing him in the groin. Up and down like a mechanical object gone berserk. An old woman is striking the aggressor across the back of the head with her umbrella. Two-handed whacks. Her mouth is opening and closing. She must be shrieking. The man turns and shoves her violently, sends her stumbling into the slush. Then he returns to his kneeing. In the distance, the sound of sirens and lights flashing against the darkening sky. The passengers on the bus have all tilted to one side to get a better view. Some are yelling encouragement to one or the other of the combatants; some are shaking their heads in disgust. I presume it’s disgust, judging from the sounds coming from their pursed mouths. Disgust mingled with just the right amount of pity for anyone who would engage in that kind of activity on a day like today.
Welcome to the big city, the woman beside me says, in a voice that indicates it’s all old hat to her. The big, ugly city. Makes you wanna puke. Don’t it make you freaking wanna puke?
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