The sub-zero temperatures proved too much for my truck, and I was forced to use the bus system for getting to work.
Though waiting for a Minneapolis bus in January is not time spent in heaven, there was much about riding the red lumbering
beasts that I liked. Boarding the number Ten every afternoon at Central and Twentieth, I would sit as far back in the bus
as possible, there to mentally describe the "convex ears," "fisheyed profiles," "voluminous ankles" of my fellow passengers.
Disembarking in downtown Minneapolis, I would wait an indeterminate amount of time on the corner of Fourth and Washington for
a number Seven. The city was in the midst of a frantic rejuvenation that winter, brick and gabled buildings being replaced
seemingly overnight by glass and chrome geometric statements. A bone-white monolith was under construction directly across
the street, and, as I huddled in my greatcoat, the January wind blowing dry snow and grit and the diesel smell of downtown,
I would daily mark progress of the building. At first I despised the structure, viewing it as an example of mindless corporatism,
but later came to identify with its construction, to feel empathy with the ant-like workers, as if the building were a symbol of
my own goals. Near the end of January came four or five days where I drank too much, sitting night after night on a stool at Momart's, hoisting seven-ounce glasses of Schmidt mouthwards till a great watery bloat overcame me. I would then negotiate the uneven and ice-encrusted sidewalks back to my room, there to stare at the Underwood several seconds before plopping in bed, spending the remainder of the night in a state not dissimilar to sleep. Two nights running I became ill, possessing on the second night not even the strength to crawl to the toilet. During those rare moments I sought motivation for such behavior, I liked to think I was seeking relief from my titanic literary struggles. But deep down I realized the absurdity of such an answer. I drank simply out of loneliness, loneliness that had been graphically exposed on a city bus.
Riding home one night down Minnehaha Avenue, I noticed a pretty, sandy-haired woman climb aboard. I fell in love. The way she dug in her large purse for fare, balancing against the acceleration of the bus as she dropped change in the counter, then scanning the interior for a seat, all had such an air of tragic, graceful vulnerability--reminding me of Greta Garbo in Grand Hotel--that I could be not but awestruck. Incredibly, she sat in the seat before me.
Having let my share of "opportunities" slip past in life, I was occasionally able to screw up enough courage to make the first move. And the best way was to plunge, don't think, hesitate, reflect, just do it! The bus rolled along like time itself. To speak or not to speak. I had been with certain men when a woman passed by, in bars and workplaces, and had been embarrassed by their catcalls, their whistles and boorish invitations. But on a certain level I envied their nerve (not to mean tons of nerve; had any of the women called these men on their harassment, and a few did, the men would be, and were, rendered dumbstruck), such behavior at least possessing life compared to my own gravelike actions. A middle ground had to exist, an area I occasionally stumbled into.
"Does this bus go downtown?" I blurted.
The sandy-haired woman turned halfway round, profiling a slightly upturned nose. "I think so, but I never ride it that far. I get off at St. Mary's."
"Are you a nurse or something?"
"No. I go there for O.T." She faced me. "Do you know what that is?"
I guessed "occupational therapy." She nodded, seemed about to say something, then looked out the window. There, swathed in asphalt blackness, was St. Mary's Hospital. She quickly pulled the bell rope and walked to the front, stutter-stepping as the bus dove to a stop. The woman turned to me, smiled, mouthed the word "bye," then stepped off.
Though an ordinary enough encounter, its memory clung tenaciously, inhabiting my thoughts at odd times: as I swept the warehouse at work, drew a bath, worked a new ribbon into the Underwood--giving rise to all manner of fantasy. Who was the woman? Why was she taking therapy? She had walked away from the bus with an apparently normal gait, thus reinforcing the more romantic notion of her problem being psychological. I believed her above all to be a survivor of tragedy.
I rode the same bus at the same time for weeks afterwards, but the woman never reappeared. I began to think something had happened to her, that some turn of events had swept her irretrievably away. The night I gave up was very cold. As usual I had ridden into downtown, disembarking on Eighth and walking to Marquette, there to wait for the Central Avenue bus. The corner I stood on faced north, the entire block having recently been razed. Now, the sterile light of a full moon shining on the rubble and payloaders and snowdrifts before me, the wind howling loneliness as it found sudden freedom, the Minneapolis skyline looming phosphorescent and impossibly large, a feeling of desolate ownership came over me, a sovereignty brought on by solitude within and without. I heard a scraping of boots. A parka-hooded figure approached and stood a few feet distant. It was a middle-aged Asian man, waiting, like me, for the bus. Not one word passed between us. I found it comforting to stand in silence with this man, this sub-zero crystalline night, resting, actually, in a place language did not belong.