Spanish Moss II

“Storm Echoes”

A long time and many miles would pass before I would see the old man again. Years, in fact.

The people here are complex and interesting. Some of them are the text book definitions of grotesque creatures and in truth it only makes me want to watch them more. The city bus always has the same familiar smell when the A/C is actually working. That smell of stale air and dirt packed into the fabric of the seats. When it isn’t working, it is a pool of sweat, body odor, and poorly brushed mouths. Across from me, on a long bench against the wall of the bus, sat an overweight woman with pink hair that’s trimmed very short. Black leather boots of some kind. I couldn’t tell you the brand name, but they’re popular ones. Dr. Marten’s maybe…I can’t be sure. I watched her dig at a scab on her arm. It was below a tattoo that looked like it was done in a kitchen. I have a kitchen tattoo, I'm not judging—rather still trying to figure out what it was more than anything. She reached into her bra—removing a large wad of tissues. They’re all balled up, like they were used earlier in the day. Like the one all our grandmothers carried in their sleeve. If you had something on your face, they would pull it out, and spit into it—before scrubbing the dirt off your face. Like a mother lion licking a cub that’s desperately trying to get away. The lady took the ball of tissue, and blew her nose in it. She blew hard, hard enough that her thick pale white fingers turned a flushed red color. So hard, that her nose ring was no longer located in her septum. She examined the mucus in the tissue, and with her still flushed pudgy finger, began fishing the ring and locking ball from the pool of snot. After reafixing it to the appropriate hole in her face, she extended her arm up and pulled the cord—leaving behind a wet sheen on the cable. The pink haired lady is why I carry hand sanitizer with me everywhere I go. It’s also the reason why I don’t sit on the bus.

The bus stop by my most recent apartment, is across the street from a little mom and pop gas station that I frequent. The stop has a handful of frequent flyers. There’s Dennis, a pure hearted man who struggles with a mental illness. He’s in his thirties maybe, possibly his early forties. It’s really hard to tell. He has a full head of thick black hair. Always immaculately dressed. I mean, he isn’t wearing Armani suits or anything, but he’s always wearing a button up pollo shirt tucked into a properly fitted belt, affixed to a pair of slacks. Usually some shade of deep blue, or a dark brown color. Size 12 dockers, slip-on, dress shoes. They look a little large for his body only because he’s a short man. Somewhere around five feet, I think. He’s always very friendly, and eager to have a conversation. I’ve had conversations with him about everything from birds to ants—and everything in-between. I like Dennis. Dennis tends to warm my heart when I see him. Mostly because in some strange way I'm jealous of him. Jealous of that pure innocence. Everything seems new to him, everytime. So, I am at once warmed and heartbroken in the same moment. I asked him once where he worked, he was always dressed like a man on his way to work. He just stomped flat footed on the ground, sort of pacing back and forth, rubbing his hair—and changed the subject to Shelly coming to see him. A girlfriend—perhaps a caregiver—he mentions her a lot. We talked about her instead. I attained the impression he didn’t care for his work much. Something about it seemed to upset him. In that moment I felt very protective over Dennis at the thought of coworkers possibly mistreating him. Then there’s Bob.

Bob’s a washed up goth with a receding hair line. Other than extending names to one another, we’ve never had an actual conversation. He always arrives the same way. Hair down his back in a pony tail. There’s more skin on top of his head then there is hair. He’s always wearing the same short sleeve button up pollo shirt. Black slacks always over black leather boots and a belt rolling over on itself. I think he works at some sort of electronics store, but of course this is little more than an assumption. Everyday, he steps onto the platform, sets down a heavy back pack, and takes a deep sigh as he pulls a cigarette out and lights it. No one says anything. They just step out of the cloud of smoke and allow him this brief moment of peace. I try to catch some second hand…I miss smoking. Dennis doesn’t like the smell, a detail he makes well known. Bob just rolls his eyes and takes another drag. Stella’s also a frequent flyer.

She’s an older woman. Could wave goodbye any day sort of old. She has a little rascal scooter. She’s a bit of a menace. Once I was standing a little too close to her self proclaimed spot, and she ran right over my toes in my new chucks. It hurt like hell, but I let it go. She’s the only other one, other than Bob’s cigarettes, who has a distinct smell. Like a little factory of Ben Gay and Werther’s Originals. She always has one of those little hard candies clacking around her dentures in a wet sound. Her hair’s a short little bun of white hair, rolled so tight I swear it erased some of the wrinkles in her face. Her skin is a brutal reminder of my own mortality, like a pile of latex gloves draped over a skeleton. She squints her sunken face in the sun behind glasses a half inch thick. Then there’s Frank.

Frank’s a preacher. An odd one at that. He grabs the bus just before ours. A short man, always in a suit, pulling around a little rolling carry on suitcase with him. His hair is only present on the sides of his head. He’s always bright eyed and happy. I have had a few interesting conversations with him. I once asked him, “What’s with the suit case?”

He said, “My church gets a little crazy from time to time. I usually end up sweating through my suit, so I bring a couple extras to look my best for my people.”

“I like that,” I said.

He retained my respect that day. It takes a special breed of person to put that sort of effort into their lives when it isn’t asked of them. It seems small but it counts for a lot, I think.

“You know, I deal with weather patterns a lot in my work,” he said.

In that moment, the hair on the back of my neck raised, my mouth opened slightly, eyebrows pinched, and I just stared at him. It was all I could do. I was frozen speechless. He just smiled at me. I had so many questions and in that moment—I couldn’t speak. That familiarity in his eyes, that bench back on those cobblestone streets several years ago. A bus pulled up and he patted my shoulder saying, “This is me, take care kid.” And I just watched him get on, thank the driver, and drive away.

It’s the same routine every day. I stare at the mountains until it gets here. Probably talking to Dennis, everyone else tends to avoid him. The bus arrives, and strangers pile out of the back like first shift leaving. Bob darts onto the bus, cutting off Stella. The bus deflates its air shocks and a large ramp unfolds from the interior. Little Stella, flips her rascal into high gear and zips onto the bus. A true speed demon. Then Dennis, and then myself. Dennis and I talk until my stop. I depart and they all fly onwards to their destinations. The ride home is usually late and I'm generally alone. I have never tried to have a conversation with the bus driver. I don’t know why, perhaps it’s because I'm exhausted…or maybe I just don’t care as much as I should. I don’t know.

…

I step off the bus in the dark. The sun faded hours ago. The building across the street is filled with students. A towering building in the area. From a third floor anywhere in the city, you can see it in the distance. It’s the end of the semester. Cars are flying in and out of the dorms. I’m careful crossing the street. I want to hit the gas station to grab something to drink, some snacks for the night, before making the trek home. I pull the door open and walk into the gas station. I wave hello to Mendez, the clerk. A sharp dressed guy who takes care of himself. He works here, and at the station down the street—and at a little Mexican joint up the street. The man makes one hell of a smothered burrito. I go see him all the time. He waves back to me and I walk to the back coolers grabbing some tea and an energy drink. I snatch a bag of sour patch kids from the shelf and walk up to the counter.

“Hey, what’s up man? How are you?” he asks.

“I’m good bro, finally done for the year. Gonna go home and play some xbox, I guess.”

A man busts through the door just as he was about to say something.

“A kid just got hit in the intersection!”

Mendez, grabs the phone to call an ambulance. I grab my items and run out to the intersection. To my surprise, I find an old classmate doing her best to tend to a tall man who is stumbling around a bit and trying to lean on an electrical box. I ask Kate, “What happened?”

“He was on his bike and an SUV plowed through the intersection. He rolled up over the vehicle and hit the ground hard—like really hard.”

She steps out of the way so I can tend to him. He doesn’t look good. His pants are torn up and blood is seeping into the frays of the clothing. He’s missing a shoe and a cyclist’s glove. Astonishingly, his backpack is still on and so is his helmet. Luckily, he was wearing one—most people around here don’t. He would be dead if he wasn’t wearing one. He might still die.

Placing my hand on his shoulder, I wave my hand in front of his face, saying, “Hey buddy, you alright? Can you look at me?”

He tries to walk ensuring me he’s fine and I gently press him back against the electrical box.

“Easy buddy,” I say. “Ambulance is on the way. You just took a really nasty hit. Try to stay still.”

I try to ask Kate if she got his name and when I turn to ask her he goes unconscious. He falls directly into my arms. His entire body is stiff, I'm pretty sure he’s seizing but I can’t see his face and I can’t feel it. I just hold him up saying, “It’s alright bud, I got you…I got you…you’re gonna be alright. Let’s get you to sit on the ledge.” Knowing he can’t hear me. I’m not sure if I'm saying it for him, or me—Kate looks traumatized in-front of me, she’s not used to this sort of thing. He finally comes back to, and takes his body weight back onto his own feet. Dennis comes walking over from the bus stop.

“Oh no, Oh no, Oh no…what happening?” asks Dennis.

Dennis couldn’t process what was happening, and I was trying to take care of the stranger at the moment so I said, “Hey bud, everything’s fine, he’s going to be okay. We’ll talk soon okay, I promise. Do me a favor and just take a step back, buddy.”

Dennis takes a step back and starts anxiously pacing back and forth in-front of the gas station. It’s making me nervous, he’s getting too close to the road, and there’s already been one casualty tonight. The stranger starts to wobble again. I get tired of asking the delirious man to sit and grab him. I force him to sit gently on the curb. He tries to stand up and I force him to stay. I feel like I'm training a new puppy. Sit—stay. Mendez comes out with a bottle of water and asks if he wants it by waving it at me. I step off to the side.

I tell him, “Don’t give him anything. If he has internal injuries, it could complicate things further.”

Mendez nods and walks back inside. I approach the man sitting on the curb. Reaching down, I tell him that I’m going to touch him, then begin at his feet. I loosen the laces on his lone shoe. Then rolling up the sleeves of his slacks I look at his legs. Lots of road rash, but no compound fractures so far. I undo, his belt, and loosen the cuffs of his shirt. Treating for shock on a patient who’s sitting up is admittedly a bit like showering before you get in the pool, but getting him to sit was hard enough. I don’t think anything is broken, and his lungs seem fine. Good rise, good fall, esophagus is straight and looking fine. I get him to give me his wallet, and I start asking him basic questions to keep him conscious. He’s getting them about 50% of the time. I hold up a finger and ask him to follow it. His eyes are jerking—starting and stoping—in a pronounced way. He’s definitely got a concussion, maybe a traumatic brain injury, but as long as he doesn’t have a brain bleed he’ll probably pull through. Kate taps me on the shoulder and points to the ambulance arriving at the intersection.

“You witnessed the accident, they’re going to want to talk to you,” I tell her.

“Yeah—alright,” she says taking a deep breath.

I smile at her and ask, “You want me to stay with you while you talk to them?”

“If you want,” she says, with a look that says yes.

So I stay. I brief the EMTs on his assessment. I brief a firefighter. I start briefing a cop. There’s another cop at the door of the SUV talking to a college girl who looks grief stricken. It’s the first time I can take a moment to see it. A large white thing, suburban of some kind. Windshield shattered, the entire front end caved in. The kid literally ate an engine block at 35 mph and walked away from it. Probably never even saw it coming. The cop snaps his fingers in front of me. I’m somewhere else. I finish briefing him and he gives me back my license. Kate is staring at Dennis. She’s already traumatized and can’t handle anything else at the moment. She stares at me.

“That’s Dennis. He’s harmless,” I say smiling. “Of course, he could totally be a serial killer I suppose. I don’t really know him that well.”

She smacks me, but she’s smiling. Across the street, I see Frank standing on the corner, suit case in hand. The smile fades from my face and wave, unsure what else I'm suppose to do. Dennis walks off towards, what I assume, is his home. We’ll talk tomorrow, I tell myself. Frank, slowly nods his head at me and walks away down the street. Just as I had done on that bench, I watch him walk away. The cop approaches us and tells us we can go. I say my goodbyes to Kate and turn towards my home.

I wish I could tell you the meaning behind it all. In all honesty, I'm still trying to figure it out. Either way, it seems my questions will have to wait until I cross over.