I make it a general rule not to clap for anyone. Seeing as how few concerts and sporting events I attend, it’s never really been an issue. But after Carl’s rousing oration, this bus is going wild, and I find myself slapping my palms together in spite of my rule.
I grab my backpack from the overhead bin and slide into the aisle, keeping my good eye on Poncho Man. After—let’s call it the Incident of the Bile in the Restroom—I made two important decisions: number one, I would lay off The X-Files reruns, as my capacity for monstrous imaginings has had free reign for long enough; and number two, I would not turn him in. The X-Files thing, I decided in about three seconds. The not-turning-in-a-perverted-troll-of-a-loafer-strutting-poncho-wearing-motherfucker I thought about the rest of the way to Nashville. And while nothing would give me more pleasure than handing his ass over to the cops, getting to Cleveland is an absolute nonnegotiable. Period. I say something about the Incident of the Bile in the Restroom, and that’s that. I’d be dragged back to Mosquitoland, a traitor among the bloodsucking scavengers. On top of my not being in Cleveland for Mom during her hour of need, Poncho Man knows about my Hills Bros. can. Kathy would press charges, I’d be arrested for theft, and instead of spending Labor Day with Mom, I’d spend it in juvie.
Bottom line: I can’t be certain Poncho Man will strike again. But turn him in, and I can be certain my Objective is done for.
So yes. It sucks. But honestly, I can’t figure a way around it.
Poncho Man is at the front of the line; I watch him nod to Carl, then step down off the bus. Now—I just need to get my ticket, get lost in a crowd, and pray that’s the end of it. He goes one way, I go another, and ne’er the two shall meet.
Carl is sitting in the driver’s seat, saying good-bye to everyone as they pass. Whatever questions I had at the beginning of my trip pertaining to this guy’s true Carl nature have been answered and then some. He’s about as Carl as they come. I smile at him, and even get ready to shake his hand (which requires serious preparation on my part), when he grabs me by the shoulder. He leans in, his eyes full of familiar mischief, and whispers, “Good luck, missy.” Then, releasing his grip, he smiles and winks, and suddenly I know exactly who he reminds me of.
And it’s not Samuel L. Jackson.
Once off the bus, I locate the nearest bench and pull out my journal.
September 2—afternoon
Dear Isabel,
Let’s pull back another layer of the Giant Onion of my Reasoning, shall we? Reggie is Reason #6.
He always stood on the same corner back in Ashland: knee-high combat boots, frazzled hair, dirty face, winning smile. Mom said the reason Reggie stood on the same corner (Samaritan and Highway 511, if you want specifics) was that it was the closest traffic light to the downtown shelter.
I had soccer at the YMCA on Wednesdays after school (more unwanted extracurriculars). From Taft Elementary to the Y it was a straight shot down Claremont to East Main, a drive which should have taken no more than five minutes. But we never went that way. Instead, Mom, her eyes gleaming with the Young Fun Now, took Smith Road to Samaritan Avenue, then 511 up to East Main. It added an extra ten minutes, but she didn’t care. Every Wednesday, without fail, Mom rolled down her window at the corner of Samaritan and 511, and exchanged three bucks for a smile and a God-bless from Reggie.
One Saturday, while shopping for a new something or other, Dad happened to be in the car with us when we came to that exact corner. Dad had never met Reggie before, and as far as I knew, he didn’t know about my mom’s generosity toward the homeless. As we pulled up, Mom reached for the window down button, but before she could press it, Dad started in on what a lazy bunch the homeless were, being the dregs of society and whatnot. “He could get a job,” Dad said, casually throwing a thumb in Reggie’s direction. “If he wasn’t such a lazy drunk.”
Mom looked right at Dad and didn’t say a word—just calmly rolled down the window.
Reggie walked up. “Howdy, Eve. Mighty fine mornin’.”
Still looking at Dad, my mom responded, “Indeed it is, Reggie. Here you go.”
I was concerned about what Dad would say once that window was rolled back up. I guess Reggie could feel the tension, because after taking the cash, he looked right at me in the backseat and winked, his eyes full of a comforting sort of mischief. Then, looking back at my mom, he gave a two-fingered salute. This salute had always been accompanied by a God bless. But this time, Reggie said, “Good luck, Miss Evie.”
My mom rolled the window up, never once taking her eyes off Dad. “Good luck to you,” she said. (She could be stone-cold when she wanted to be.)