A day like no other

A Day at the Bus Stop©
By Autumn Faith Harper
I see him every morning at the bus stop, the Thin Man who always has a vague, almost absent-minded air about him. I wonder if he often skips breakfast. I can't quite put my finger on it, but the way he glances at me, and then pretends he hasn't, makes me wonder what's on his mind. I've wanted to speak to him for months but I cannot find the courage to do so. Does he, too, miss his family in a distant town, or does he feel stifled by all the tall buildings walling in on him from all sides, like I do? I glance at him hoping he might speak to me; that waiting together at the bus stop will make us more than just passing strangers.
He and I are usually the only commuters at this time. Today, he peers at his watch through his narrow-angular glasses, crinkles his nose, and mutters, "Late again." He has finally broken his silence, yet I can only guess at his indistinct murmur.
Is he speaking to me? I clear my throat, look up, and hope he'll speak to me more. Maybe he will reveal more interesting facts about himself. For instance, perhaps he will tell me about his work or how cruel his boss is; then I can share my stories about my job and how mean my boss can be. I wonder if he hates waiting for the bus as much as I do.
He towers above me like a shadow exaggerated by the setting sun. I am not the type who can draw his attention to me in ways those sassy girls at bars and nightclubs might. I don't flick back my hair, or look him directly in the eye. The Thin Man nods and shifts his weight on his lanky legs as though acknowledging me, but says nothing more.
It's a luminous morning after months of drab, gloomy weather: the kind of morning when I wouldn’t mind eating hot grits, even if normally I can't stand them. I warm my hands in a sliver of sunlight to ward off the morning chill. I should have worn something heavier than a short-sleeved cotton dress.
A bus rumbles up to our shelter, its glass and chrome gleaming in the sunshine. It disgorges passengers, swallows fresh commuters, and then leaves, snorting hot exhaust into my face. As the smoke clears, I see a crumpled, white heap by the side of the road.
"Someone has fallen off that bus!" I reply, pointing at the heap.
"Looks to be a homeless person," the Thin Man says." His voice sounds rusty, as if from rarely speaking.
I continue to wait, hoping that the heap on the ground will rise and take on human form, then proceed to brush the dust off its clothes, and walk away unhurt.
But it doesn't.
Many people rush past us, not even noticing anything lying by the gutter. The local baker marches by, the grocer walks past briskly; even the sheriff seems to be in his own world waving at passersby but looking the other way.
Then all of a sudden I start hearing faint groans coming from the thing on the ground. I keep thinking, Why doesn't someone do anything to help?
Seeing no signs of my bus coming anytime soon, I step out of the shelter and start to approach the thing on the ground. The Thin Man hesitates and then trails behind me like a shadow.
Pointing, I say, "Look, it’s a man and he is foaming at the mouth. He looks like he’s sick." I'm wondering if I should back away.
As I start, the Thin Man steps closer, spreads his arms out to stop me, and says, "His clothes look semi-clean, and there are no bloodstains. He doesn't look like he was hurt much. Leave him alone. I’ll bet he's just drunk!” As the Thin Man speaks, he glances at me, only to turn guiltily away as usual when I try to meet his gaze.
While waiting for the bus along with the Thin Man, I've amused myself by making up dreadful secrets and stories he is trying to hide. There is probably a simple explanation—that he is just as unfriendly as everyone else.
Another bus halts at our bus stop and honks. It is our bus, and I wonder if I should miss it and take the next one. I would be late for work; but I really want to find out what happens to the man on the ground. I look towards my mysterious Thin Man; he doesn't seem to be making any fast moves to catch the bus either. Is he wondering what will happen to the Sick Man, too? Well, if he isn't going, neither am I, so right then and there I decide to stay and wait for another bus to come.
I utter loudly, "Shouldn't we take this man to a doctor or call an ambulance?" Nobody answers; instead the Thin Man takes off his shoe, bends down and holds the shoe near the Sick Man’s nose. After a while the Sick Man comes to, and pulls himself together. The Sick Man wipes the foam from the corners of his mouth, and his breathing relaxes to a more steady rhythm.
At this moment in time, I want to exchange a high-five with the Thin Man, hoping now I will have my chance at last to be on a one-to-one basis with him and get to know his name; but neither the Thin Man nor I make a move.
The Sick Man is not a drunk, homeless person after all.
I start asking the Sick Man questions about why he was roaming around and make sure that he is okay. The Sick Man assures me he is all right, and begins pouring out his heart-wrenching story. He tells us that he comes from a small town, is looking for work, and that he had been staying with his cousins here in the city. He also reveals that his cousins could no longer support him, and for the past two weeks he has been wandering the streets looking for any money, food, or clothing assistance he could find, but there seemed to be no help available. The Sick Man also proclaims that he has nowhere to sleep, no place to get out of the weather, and no phone to call his family back home.
I think long and hard about how this man’s own family could be so cruel and turn him out during the cold winter months.
The Sick Man replied, as if reading my mind," I know what you're thinking!" My family is not cold and heartless; they did the very best they could for me. They cannot support me forever since they are poor themselves. So please don't misjudge them."
I think to myself, I wonder if the Sick Man is a con man, and trying to pull a fast one on us: hoping that we take pity on him, and give him all our money.
I ask the Sick Man a few more questions; his replies seem honest and sincere.
As the Sick Man speaks, he pulls out his tattered and torn wallet and opens it to a picture of his family. He tells me that he hasn't eaten since yesterday, and his family back home is just his wife and one baby girl, who was born two months prior to his arrival in the city to find work. The Sick Man proceeds to sit down on the curb and stare down at the muddy street; I notice his worn-out shoes and frayed clothes.
I decide that this man is destitute and needs our help. First, the Sick Man needs a shower, food, and new clothes; later he could get assistance finding a job. I open up my purse and give the Sick Man all the extra money I can find, leaving myself only a few coins for my bus fare to and from work. I wonder where the Sick Man will go now and how far my gift will take him. I wish that I could give him more, but it is all I have. Just then, to my surprise, the Thin Man jumps up like he had read my mind, pulls out his wallet, and gives the Sick Man more money. Even a few bystanders and new commuters, who had gathered around, start reaching into their pockets and offer what they could.
The Sick Man starts crying; he sighs faintly and stares beyond us in silence; then he stands up, thanks us, and walks away with hope in his stride.
At this moment an overwhelming feeling of happiness covers me like a thick blanket. I begin to think differently about this city and the people. These people are not as unfriendly as I once believed; and humanity is still alive in this big city.
I glance at my watch and realize I am now going to be very late for work. I start to head back to the bus shelter to wait for my bus to arrive. This time I don't even turn to look and see if the Thin Man has taken my lead to follow behind me. I wonder, when tomorrow comes and the Thin Man and I are here again at the bus stop waiting for our bus, if he will speak to me or just stand in silence as if today never happened.