A Gathering of Souls
His hair was a bouncy cap of ginger ringlets, bob-length with bangs that framed an endlessly smiling face. From my seat on the bench nestled inside the plexiglass-wrapped bus stop shelter, I guessed him for maybe nineteen or twenty, dressed in the customary statehouse page uniform: blue blazer, khakis and light brown Oxfords, his backpack fitting snugly across his shoulders. He gave me a full-on wide smile and I returned it before going back to scrolling the route schedule to make sure my 45 Express to the New Albany Park & Ride was on time. When I looked up again, he said, “I love your outfit—it all works—the pants, the jacket, the earrings—it just looks great!” “Thanks!” I replied. “That’s kind of you to say”, and then filled in the back story on how the pants were a gift from a dear friend (Maria, who wanted me to have bus pants like Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory) and just so comfortable for late summer downtown strolls. I soon learned that his mother liked to shop at Costco for ladies’ sweatpants and how she felt strongly that the hallmark of an enduring wardrobe was comfort first, fashion second. His name is Jacob and now we enjoy short, cheerful catch-ups most Wednesdays and Thursdays before boarding our rides home.
Getting back into the public transportation groove has been an eye-opening reminder of the urban rhythm I left behind some twenty-five years ago, when I traded concrete for grass and exhaust fumes for field breezes. I’m sharing that space again twice a week with a diverse crowd of fellow humans showing up every day with their backpacks and strollers and between-transfers cigarettes, just trying their best and inhaling a well-earned pause in their life’s constant motion. I join them without pretense or judgment; just infinite curiosity and a willingness to expand my view.
And speaking of inhaling…on my first day back downtown in twenty-five years, waiting at what I hoped was the right bus stop to catch the 45 back to my car parked some five miles beyond the beltway, I sat next to a man who was rolling his own smokes, carefully wrapping the dark thin paper around tightly packed shreds of tobacco. He lit one and pulled on it deeply, exhaling the smoke into curling swirls that drifted lazily in my direction. Catching a quick sniff, it was clear his tobacco of choice wasn’t what they put in a pack of Marlboro’s, and I wondered about my new employer’s random drug screen policy, hoping the open air of the bus stop bench was enough to keep me above suspicion should HR come a-calling.
Each week it’s a steady stream of encounters I couldn’t have imagined on my previous bucolic commute through the hills and farm fields of two counties just east of city life. There was the young man with a Cuban accent who noticed me sitting by myself on the bench and cheerfully asked if I had cooties before launching into his story of how he moved here from California last month and wasn’t looking forward to the approaching chilly autumn. And the older woman who glanced down at my colorful hand-painted leather shoes and smiled (a thrift store score from a few years back, lavender and pale blue with randomly placed yellow stars on the toes, taking my look just to the edge of street performing clown), asking me where I got them. If I time my office departure just right and the elevators from the 21st floor are cooperating, I can lean against the low stone wall that wraps around the statehouse lawn and watch peaceful protests and outdoor ceremonies from a distance, the sound system spooling out the speaker’s remarks, tinny and garbled as it travels across High Street to bounce off the glassy front of the Huntington building’s thirty-seven floors. In the past several weeks, I’ve adjusted my apprehensive posture, dusted off and updated my street smarts and kept a part of my heart open to making new acquaintances. Not everyone I don’t know is dangerous or unsettlingly weird. I’m walking into the middle of movies here, with a string of buses stopping to drop off and pick up more cast members. And it only costs me $4 a day. That’s a bargain by any calculations.
But…speaking of unsettling…this past Monday, I took my usual stroll across Broad Street’s six wide lanes, pulling my rolling carry-all bag behind me on my way to the bus stop shelter when I heard a deep, solitary voice singing loudly, echoing through the airy halls of the downtown building-scape. I couldn’t make out the words nor see the source as it grew louder and closer to where my fellow riders and I stood or sat huddled against a stiff autumn wind. Then, there he was, a tall dreadlocked figure in a thin navy blue skirt, open-toed flat sandals and a zippered jacket, walking down the middle of High Street in the center turn lane, cars speeding past and around him as he gestured wildly, stumbling back and forth between the wide curbs. In between verses of a song only he knew the words to, he made emphatic proclamations on subjects that clearly meant a lot to him but no one else witnessing could understand. His long fingernails sported a neat bright pink manicure and when he paced in front of the bus shelter, he’d start directing both buses and riders to stop, board and “be safe!” I watched as this unscripted drama played out before us all, some in the crowd hollering at him to be quiet, others moving almost imperceptibly nearer to one another for some modicum of protection. I was alone at the south end of the bench, my carry-all, tote bag and purse within reach and my eyes not making contact with his. I had no idea what I might see, or worse, what I do with it once I saw it. I felt vulnerable and unhelpful all at once.
And then he was gone, vanished into the thinning crowd, a troubled angel come to teach us all. When I stopped scanning the area in a 360-degree circle, my eyes landed on a new rider who’d arrived for the 102 to take him north through OSU’s campus, a black and red leather dog mask covering his head, complete with a snout he could unsnap to take a drag off his cigarette.
I looked around for Jacob and his bouncing ginger ringlets but I suppose he was working late again at the job he loved. As the 45 pulled up, flashing the reassuring route confirmation on the digital crawler at the top of the windshield, I climbed in and took my seat, looking forward to the half-hour ride back to my car where, in silence and privacy, I could unpack what I’d just seen, tucking yet another handful of souls into my prayers for the night.
