From the Chinatown Bus — 10/12/08
I am riding a bus to Philadelphia that picked me up two hours late. Yet another terrific performance from the Chinatown Bus crew.
I am seated next to a tiny Chinese man who smells precisely like the pigs from camp. He has dents in his skull, or maybe that’s just his haircut. He is talking on his cell phone. He has been talking on his cell phone all night. He will not stop talking on his fucking cell phone until he is put to rest — which could be by me before this trip is over.
His jeans are so small, yet they don’t seem even to touch his legs. The fabric forms deep shadows in the yellow of the man’s overhead light. It is one of the four on the bus turned on, and his is the only voice.
He opens a bottle of Poland Spring and the water shoots straight upward and down on his face, jacket and jeans. Still talking. Whenever a call ends he pulls out a little book of phone numbers and starts all over. A lot of numbers on those little pages. Good thing this ride is two hours and not twelve, because I bet this could continue for weeks.
He’s leaning back with his knees against the seat in front of him. He fingers a spot on the back of his skull with his right hand, cell phone in the left. His twiggy legs seem not to press against the seat with a force even noticeable to the person in front of him. I bet I could snap this seat in half if I wanted. Maybe even by accident.
I was planning to write a message to my musician friends. I still might.
When he takes his hand from his face, I can see a defined vein in his right temple. He is actually off the phone now. Touching his head carefully, as though he’s looking for something. It’s very quiet.
My message to my musician friends will be about the music classes I have taken part in so far during my first three weeks of school. It will be an appeal for my friends to have the confidence to play music with classically trained people and not feel embarrassed. And not even that far behind, because the DIY musicianship they have built up over the years will prove surprisingly versatile. Much more so than extensive training on one instrument.
Oh, phone is back out talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk. A van passes the bus and I’m not sure if its headlights are on. A filtered-air breeze coasts along my neck. The sensation is welcome, as I am warm in my sweatshirt.
The boy directly in front of me with the baseball cap has his seat reclined all the way back. It was like that when we got on, I think. But our skulls are 10 inches apart, which seems nnatural. I was going to let this information go unrecorded but now that I think about it, I’m a little annoyed.
Call ended. I’m wondering whether this man has been talking to real people or if he feels better on this bus by himself if he makes the rest of us believe that he has all these great friends.
I stand up to let him use the bathroom and I sit back down in his seat. Hopefully he’ll take mine when he gets back…
Disco!
Lights out.
