Every scimitar turns in my direction. I sling my bag over my shoulder, grateful for Arlene’s supportive smile, and climb into the belly of the rocking beast.
I’ve only known two other Carls in my lifetime—an insurgent moonshiner and a record store owner—both of whom taught me important (though very different) life lessons. In my book, Carls are a top-notch species. But easing down the aisle, listening to the grunts and gags of my third Carl, I’m beginning to wonder if the streak has ended. Girding my nostrils, my lungs, my everything else, I poke my head around the corner and gag. The stench isn’t terrestrial. It’s not even extraterrestrial.
This shit (so to speak) is megaterrestrial.
Propped in the corner, a sopping mop leaks unidentified juices into a bucket; Carl’s gloves are covered, too, and even though the floor and toilet are pretty well cleaned up, I’d bet all the cash in Kathy’s can that this stink isn’t going anywhere. It has seeped its way into the very framework of the bus.
I clear my throat, announcing my presence.
Carl’s tuft skims the ceiling as he removes his gloves, and tosses them into the mop bucket. “Just wanna make sure you ain’t blind.”
My epiglottis flutters. Carl is unaware of the Great Blinding Eclipse, unaware of my solar retinopathy, but . . .
He lights a cigarette, takes a drag, and points to the sign above the sink. “Read that for me, will you?”
Relieved, I read the sign aloud. “Use trash can for paper towels and feminine products. Do not flush.”
“You notice those last three words?” He sticks the cigarette out the window, taps off the ashes, and takes another puff. “They big ’n’ bold, ain’t they? So. I’m forced to ask . . . you blind?”
In the movie of my life, I flick that cigarette out of his mouth and educate him on the effects of secondhand smoke. Also, how to be nice. Carl is played by Samuel L. Jackson, and I, of course, am portrayed by Madam Kate Winslet.
Okay, Zooey Deschanel, then.
Fine. A young Ellen Page.
“I’m not blind,” I say.
He nods, takes one last drag, and tosses the stub out the window, thus confirming my suspicions: not all Carls are created equal.
After stuffing the mops into a pygmy closet, he leaves me alone in the bathroom.
I stare at my face in the tiny mirror and wish a thousand things. I wish we’d never left Ashland. I wish Mom wasn’t sick. I wish we hadn’t gone to Denny’s that day. I wish Kathy would jump off a cliff. I wish I hadn’t thrown away those letters. I wish I hadn’t squandered my proof. I wish I still had a tangible I-don’t-know-what . . . thing.
I wish wishing were enough, but it’s not.
Sometimes you need a thing.
7
A Metamorphosis Begun
“MIND IF I sit here?”
A familiar smile shines down on me, sending my epiglottis into orbit. And like that, Poncho Man sits in Arlene’s spot. My Arlene. He leans over, removes a pair of penny loafers—with actual pennies tucked in the front flaps—and slides them under his chair. (Next to my Arlene’s purse.) Turning to me with jack-in-the-box enthusiasm, he offers a hand.
“I never properly introduced myself,” he says. “I’m Joe.”
Think quick, Malone. I point to my right ear and shake my head. “I’m deaf.”
He drops his hand, but his smile goes nowhere. “We talked. In Jackson.”
The old Malone stick-to-itiveness kicks in; I turn to look out the window, pretending not to have heard.
The rest of the passengers file into their seats, the engine rumbles to life, and the bus slowly gains momentum. Wherever Arlene ended up sitting, she’ll be getting a purse delivery pronto. I might just camp out in the aisle next to her.
“I’ve been watching you,” says Poncho Man.
If there are four creepier words in the English language, color me a monkey’s uncle.
I watch the slowly passing trees out the window. You can’t hear him, Mary. You’re deaf and you can’t hear him.
“Chitchatting with the old lady and the bus driver,” he continues.
If there were sand, I would bury my head in it.
“I know you can hear me.”
If there were wet concrete, I would bury his head in it.
“Antoine,” I whisper, still looking out the window.
“What’s that?”
“My name.” I turn to look at him. I want to see that phony smile wiped off his face. “It’s Antoine.”
Poncho Man (I will not call him Joe) does not relinquish his grin. In fact, it’s wider than ever. “Not a very good liar, are you?” he says.
“Better than you, I bet.”
He sighs, sits back, and pulls a book out of his poncho. I didn’t even know ponchos had pockets. “That’s doubtful.”
“Oh yeah, why’s that?”
“Because I’m an attorney.”
While I look for his off switch, he goes on and on about his practice in southern Louisiana, which he runs out of a small condo, one he shares with his ex-secretary, now wife, and blah, blah, blah, blah, shoot me now.
“You wanna hear about my latest case?”
I open my mouth into a wide, fake yawn, look directly at him, and blink slowly.