Because a lot of people who are homeless, mentally ill, in
the throes of addiction or otherwise marginalized don’t drive, they ride the
bus. In the impersonal and crammed aisles and one-size-fits-all seats, they’re
commonplace. And though climate
change is killing us, very few average
middle-class people have abandoned their cars for the wiser alternative.
The underclass, I’m saying, is well represented on public
transportation. They’re not the condiment, they’re the main course. And because a bus ride is often the only
shelter available, there’s always a good chance some visibly unfortunate rider is
dealing openly with the pain, sickness, demons or grief a middle-class person
would handle at home.
Today, James Junior (not his real name), riding my 75 bus,
was dealing.
As I boarded, James was sitting on the right front bench,
preaching his personal gospel to a teen sitting on the left front bench
straight across the aisle from him. The topic was “Respect.” James was on fire
about respect.
He was declaiming, “You don’t let nobody disrespect a woman.
Ever. EVER!” He repeated this assertion more than once, and glanced around the
bus to show that, though he was talking to one person, we were all included in
the situation.
James’ emotional state contained notes of anger,
grandiosity, vulnerability, and a hint of possession. He leaned forward in his
seat and spoke to the kid in the tone of an overbearing, disappointed father.
“They are queens. Every woman is a queen.”
He said this again, and then again. And then, to stress the
point, James Junior greeted women around him.
“Hello, Queen! You are a beautiful creature and I love you!”
He seemed sincere and passionate. One woman smiled. Another
one tried to ignore him.
James declared, “I can have any woman I want.” He meant it,
and repeated the statement, but I doubted him. No woman there stepped up to get
a piece of James.
James’ fiery speech was meant, as I say, for all of us. And
though he filled the bus with self-esteem, he got nothing back from us. No
surprise. From what I’ve seen, a fiery speech given on public transportation does
not fall on deaf ears. Instead, it falls like a small bomb into the midst of
captive strangers who are trying to block
out their ride. Half of bus riders wear earbuds.
Most riders are going to take even divine inspiration, if it interrupts a
podcast, as a really annoying distraction, if not a sign of mental illness or even
a threat.
James carried on.
“I’m James Junior and THERE IS NO HELL. NO ONE goes to HELL.
I’ve died and come back and I guarantee there’s no Hell to be afraid of. And
anyway, you can’t be afraid to die. If you’re afraid to die, you can’t live.”
He was seized with feeling – tears, broken voice – he was fighting
against an invisible enemy for something he believed in.
He repeated and repeated and repeated that no one goes to Hell. I had to get off the bus before he was done,
but I think I got the gist.
I take James’ point. I’m a little afraid to die, not because
of Hell, which I don’t believe in, either. What I fear is reincarnating into a
life worse than the one I know and suffering in ways I can’t even imagine.
Now, that might be Hell.
