Write365

Psychologists say that we remember only a small percentage of things that happen in our lives, but beginnings and endings are much easier to recall than the vague middles. I read that in Psychology Today magazine last week – picked up on an impulse buy as I was getting a hot lunch at Whole Foods. Little did I know that the article would become more than academic for me in less than a week’s time. I realized now that this was a time in my life I was not likely to forget.

My cell phone rings and it’s my friend Emma. She wants to know how I am. Fine, fine, I tell her. And I am fine. Leave me the hell alone, I want to tell her. Why do friends always think they can disappear until you’re in a crisis. Believe it or not, I was more in the mood for sharing when my life wasn’t a disaster. A week ago, I could have told her that I was planning on planting some Pink Charm daffodils for next spring. That would have been nice, but who wants to hear about daffodils? Now she just wants dirt. I resist the urge to tell her to dig for gossip elsewhere and hang up the phone.

Now I’m standing in the rain and thinking about the pains most people go to to avoid change in their own lives, but as soon as someone else is getting married, or breaking up, or getting pregnant, or terminally ill, they sure like to talk about. It gets them all worked up and excited. I guess it dulls the pain of their own boring lives. Or makes them feel good that their lives are running right on track – not realizing that they can’t avoid change. It’s the nature of the universe.  

For me, change isn’t so scary. At least in theory. But as I wave down the 21K city bus and get on board, balancing my purse, my portfolio, and a soggy umbrella, I have to admit that I’m a bit intimidated. I fumble with my purse as the people behind me get impatient, reaching around me to put money in the slot. “How much is it?” I ask timidly but nobody answers. Then I see the small sign that says “$1.10 exact change only.” I fumble some more and by a stroke of luck I actually have a dollar bill and a dime and shove it in the slot.

The bus is already lurching forward as I trip down the aisle in my black high heels, looking for the cleanest and least threatening person I can find to sit next to. Here’s an old man, hopefully he won’t touch me. He avoids eye contact and I slump in the seat next to him, trying to keep a few inches of personal space around me. He smells like coffee brandy and cigarettes and I regret my choice already. Damn! Why didn’t I sit next to the lady with the missing teeth? I realize I’m being a snob and try to shut off my internal dialog by pulling out my magazine. It’s wet with rain and the pages are sticking together, but I find more interesting things to ponder.

Here’s an article called “Breaking off a romance: The case for kindness.” Now there’s one that’s ironically inappropriate for me. My husband, soon to be ex-husband, took care of that one for me just three days ago. I start to wonder if he read this article. He did break my heart quite kindly. Hmm, I’m staring out the window with my eyebrow raised, trying to think if I had left the magazine laying around the house before he broke the news to me that he had met someone new. The old guy next to me thinks I’m staring at him and takes it as an excuse to strike up a conversation.

“Where you headed all dressed up like that?” His breath mows me down like machine gun fire. I suck in my breath and try not to breathe.

“Downtown. Job interview,” I croak out with as little oxygen as possible. Then I look back down at my article. I start to zone out and then realize that he’s still talking.

“What’s that?” I say.

“I said you’re on the wrong bus.”

I stare at him, not comprehending. “Isn’t this the 21K to downtown?”

“Nope.” I wait for more but he seems to have lost interest. I keep staring at him. Finally he says, “You’re on the 24B. If you’re looking to buy crack or get a prostitute, you’re on the right bus, miss.” He leans in closer as if to say something else, then apparently decides that a maniacal laugh is more appropriate. I wipe coffee brandy flavored spittle from my Anne Klein suit and think to myself that he’s probably just crazy. I’m sure this is the 21K. Then I look around. If these people are going downtown, I can’t imagine what for.

Shit. I’m not going to cry. Crying would be the worst thing to do right now. Never show your vulnerability, especially not on a city bus headed for the crack neighborhood. I look back down at my article and watch as a giant splash coming from the direction of my eye makes the article illegible. Not a problem, didn’t need that article anyway. I slam it shut and shove it in my bag. I reach over the smelly old guy and pull the cord to stop the bus, like I’d watched the other passengers do. Then I stood up and strutted off the bus like I owned it. I can handle this.