I’m jealous of anyone who can wait patiently. Unfortunately,
what works for many does not work for me. Sitting at a bus stop while reading a
book is not conducive to my natural state of internal combustion. Listening to
my iPod and staring into space while contemplating the universe occasionally
helps pass the time, but I lose interest easily, and as a rule … I just end up
pacing and waiting. There is no muttering. I don’t mutter. Not yet, anyway.
In a particularly pensive or nostalgic mood, I might look
around for a trigger to engage the process that sometimes leads to the creation
of one of these webological entries. Sometimes this pays off. Sometimes it
doesn’t. Either way, I generally get what I really want … the illusion of
accelerated time.
Yesterday morning, I arrived even earlier than usual at the
bus stop that represents the halfway point between home and work. I had about
forty minutes to kill, so I walked to the next stop, and this took me past a
blinking EMS vehicle, which was parked with little regard for geometric
conformity near the entrance to a coffee shop. My destination was in front of the quaint mobile home encampment where I am occasionally
distracted by the antics of an amiable white cat while waiting for the bus to
arrive. Unfortunately, the cat was not present. Several spaces near the
entrance to this modest community of kitschy aluminum had been vacated, and I
sincerely hope the cat belongs to one of the units that moved on. I refuse to entertain a
more calamitous explanation.
I was thinking about how much this facility reminded me of
the 1950s, when a distant train whistle audibly validated this observation.
Okay. Here we go. These squat, metallic Quonsets could just as easily represent
some ancient Bradbury colony on Mars. And, if I were to clamber over the painted fence
behind those distant Airstreams, I just might be reunited with the foreboding woods of my feverish, childhood dreams. I took note of the sky, as
dead as gunmetal, and the temperature of the air – which hovered somewhere
between the bracing chill of a walk-in cooler and the glacial stare of an
unhappy spouse. There was gold here, if I could mine it. There were rocks to
upturn, and snowballs to kick downhill.
There were …
Nah. It just wasn’t happening. My imagination was denied
all transport. I had obviously left the letters of transit in my other pants. I was still
halfway between Hyde Park and Westlake and my muse was still at home, sleeping
like a headless zombie.
The sound of a door slamming alerted me to the departure of
the ambulance. Dousing its frenetic light show, the vehicle pulled away from
the curb and drove slowly past me. After a lethargic u-turn, the unit proceeded
toward downtown Austin with no hint of increased velocity. Obviously, this had
been some sort of a coffee emergency. Meanwhile, the train whistle continued
doing its part, but I was resigned to waiting for my bus.
Someone was approaching. I saw a figure several blocks away, walking north by northwest up Barton Springs. One is likely to encounter
an inordinate number of homeless citizens on this stretch of road. There is a
351-acre park nearby, and heavily wooded hills all around, as well as elevated
train tracks and a veritable network of inviting ditches. So, if you stand for
very long on this street, you will probably encounter someone who will more
than likely ask for money. As a rule, I don’t mind, but this particular Sunday
morning, I was feeling the pangs of my own temporary impecunity, and was not in
the mood to explain this to a total stranger. And, as it turned out, I didn’t
have to. As the man got closer, I saw the logo on his shirt. It was the same as
the Mexican restaurant right down the block, and he was obviously on his way to
work. We exchanged pleasantries, as civilized strangers sometimes do, and he
walked to the rear of the restaurant, where he probably began unpacking
produce, washing lettuce and breaking down boxes. I did that job for several
years, and I often miss the shared misery and free coffee.
Before my mind could return to the stupefying preview of
death we like to call waiting, I saw another figure approaching from the
opposite direction. Even from a distance, I could see that, instead of a logo,
his grey sweatshirt displayed a great deal of dirt and moisture. The man wore
an equally soiled red ball cap and carried an overstuffed backpack. Okay. This
guy was homeless. He was coming from the park and he was going to ask me for
money and the minute I told him I had none, he would dismiss me with a look of
judgment and disdain amplified by its own maddening predictability.
Why should
I have to apologize for having no money? Leave me alone. I’m just trying to get to work.
I turned away and feigned interest in my phone. I planned to
hold this pose until the gentleman had walked by. Hopefully, he wouldn’t stop.
I had no money. None. Not one penny. I couldn’t help him. It wouldn’t even be a
lie.
And then, in my peripheral vision, I saw him in the middle
of the street. He was crossing over, a half-block or so from where I stood.
There was nothing over there except a bike shop, but for some reason he had
decided to continue his journey on that side of the street. Sonofabitch. He was
crossing the street to avoid me.
As the bus approached, I made a mental note to examine my
obviously troubling visage in the bathroom mirror of the coffee shop I always
visit on my way to work.
What? Okay. Fine. I had coffee money.
