Mass Transit

(October 04, 2001)

An articulate, modulated voice said softly,"That is one interesting outfit." Sighing, I looked up to see the owner of the voice. I just knew that one of these guys was going to start talking to me. That's what happens when a weird chick in a fringed gypsy dress, pink shades, pearls, and Doc Martens arrives at a bus stop outside a VA facility. One other woman was waiting for the bus, standing apart from the Vets, tired-looking and extremely pregnant in a man's oversized Harley Davidson T-shirt over pilled black Walmart leggings.

The man that had peeled off from the pack to appreciate my attire is younger than the rest. The voice went with the kind of face that looks vaguely like someone I've seen before. Familiar and forgettable. Unlike the others, he's clean-shaven and does not give off any noticeable odor, except for that of stale cigarette smoke. He's also dressed for the warm weather in a bright short-sleeved shirt and khaki pants. The other ex-soldiers and forgotten war heroes that cling to the VAs like ducks to a pond are scruffy, bearded, layered in flannel and denim. Jackets over shirts over T-shirts. None speak. All are smoking. Including the person addressing me.

"I think so," he continued. "I think it is a very interesting outfit. Do you work here?" he asked, gesturing toward the VA.

"No, I work over there," I answered, pointing towards where I think Technology Park Drive is. I don't have a very good sense of direction. "This is the nearest bus stop back to the city," I add unnecessarily."Do YOU work here?" I asked, for lack of anything else to say. The 62 bus chugs into sight.

"No," he said, pinching with two fingers to break his Marlboro cigarette just above the point where it's burning. "I," he flicks tobacco shreds to the ground, inspects the unlit tip, "am a bum." He puts the cigarette into his pocket. "And, I'm good at it." The cigarette that he's saving for later is almost all the way smoked down. I mull over what cigarettes cost these days. I don't know. I don't really know how much a carton of milk costs, either. I need milk, I go get milk. I feel a twinge of self-awareness mixed with guilt. I complain about my job, the crazy busy-ness of my life, always a million things to do, constantly battling encroaching clutter in my apartment. But then, I don't have to pinch pennies, either. I am sure that this guy knows exactly how much a carton of milk costs. The Price is Right, I bet, is where poor coupon-clippers prevail over the un-frugal non-needy.

The bus grinds loudly to a stop and expels a noxious cloud. I am not surprised that he sits next to me. "How does my face look?" he asks, gingerly feeling the cheekbone under his right eye. I notice that the spot he's touching has a bluish tinge. I tell him it's hardly noticeable. I ask what happened.

"I just got kicked off the ward for fighting," looking out the window as we pull away from the VA. "One of the staff hauled off and hit me. They don't believe me that he started it. They're like cops. They stick together." After a minute he adds, "That's the second fight in as many days." Ignoring the stares of the black passengers, he describes kicking the ass of a black guy in the park. "I bought him a drink. He hit me. I have a black belt in karate. I don't like to fight, but I had to roundhouse kick him. There was a ring of black people cheering me on. The guy was a bully. White guys don't usually fight back in a situation where everyone around is black. But nobody is safe from a bully. What do you think of this shirt?"

"It's like Magnum P.I." I say. "Yes," he agrees, "it's a Hawiian shirt. It's linen. This is an eighty dollar shirt. I prefer to dress well. These colors, I can wear with black, tan, green...actually, anything but blue will go with this shirt."

He tells me that that on November 1st he'll have a job, an apartment, and a car. He also tells me that he is a drug addict. He's got forty dollars, and he's taking the bus to Back Bay to get crack.

"I wouldn't know how to buy crack to save my life," I tell him. "It's everywhere," he says. "Bums on crack can spot other bums on crack. Crack addicts know where to get crack." He looks at me as if deciding whether or not to continue. I make my face neutral, leaving the decision up to him. "Water," he says, apparently deciding to tell me all about it," always finds its own level." He describes a downward spiral where crime and drug use alternately become each other's cause and effect. Before long, any means to get drugs is acceptable. In California, he worked as a smuggler.

"A smuggler."

"Yes. I smuggled across the Mexican border."

"What did you smuggle?"

"Mexicans."

As the bus stops in Lexington to let a horde of high school kids on, he goes into great detail about the false-bottom trucks used to transport Mexicans across the border, and how he only did it because he was desperate for money for drugs.

I tell him that I have a friend who, when he was young, got arrested in South America for drugs. That the Ecuadorians had tried aversion theraphy on him, like Alex in A Clockwork Orange.

"It doesn't seem like that would work for humans," I add. "Why not?" he says. "The human brain is extremely suggestible. Aversion therapy is very effective." He goes on to describe Pavlovian examples of aversion therapy that have been written up, interrupting his train of thought only to point out which of the high school kids are high right now. "It's in the eyes," he says. "That one. At the end." The kid he's pointing to, as though the kids were on TV and couldn't see him pointing right at them, has a wild head of dredlocks, and glazed eyes. The kid sinks into a seat and leans over, head nearly between his knees. A very thin girl in a thrift shop halter top sits next to him and speaks into his ear. The kid doesn't open his eyes.

"Yes," he says as though a question has been answered. "Aversion therapy is very powerful. But so are drugs."

"Where are you going to go now? Another VA?"

"First to Back Bay. There is a Starbucks where I like to sit and have coffee, and watch the people go by." I tell him I don't like Starbucks coffee. "Dunkin Donuts tastes so much better. Starbucks coffee tastes burnt."

"You think that, but that's because you're like most people who don't understand coffee. Coffee is like cheese. What's the easiest cheese to get people to eat? Sure, American cheese. But that doesn't mean that every now and then you don't want a nice sharp Cheddar or a tangy Swiss or even a Brie or Camombert." He tells me that he is a Botanist and used to grow coffee. "Dunkin Donuts coffee is a blend. There are many different kinds of cultivated coffee. The genus of coffee is coffea, c-o-f-f-e-a. But there are different species. The blending process makes a generic-tasting, mild coffee. You're not really tasting it the way you would if you had a cup of, say a nice Sumatran roast. The roasting brings out the essence of the bean."

After Starbucks, he's going to take a bus to Cape Cod. "People don't realize it's a lot nicer off-season. Once the tourists leave."

The bus pulls into Alewife station and lurches to a stop. The doors wheeze open and everyone jostles to file off and into the station. "What's your name?" I ask. "Jason," he says. "Well Jason, good luck with everything."

He's pulled the mostly-smoked cigarette out of his pocket. As I walk away toward the inbound train and home, he lights it.