It had been a crappy day. The stupid politics,
the social drama of the high school no longer seemed important to me. All the
distress caused over the he-said-she-said bullshit suddenly seemed so ridiculously
indulgent. The slippery, hard plastic seats of the public bus were welcomed
for once, because they would carry me away from the fatigue that school induced.
It was late in the year. Too late to deal with tragic melodramatic emotions.
As the bus bumped along on it's hyperactive shocks, I mourned people's inability
to be just let things be. I mourned other people's inability to allow themselves
happiness just as I mourned my own. The irony of my dark mood over my frustration
with other people's dark moods did not escape me. But the day was bright, and
already the worse of my irritation was melting away into the sunshine and mild
weather. All that was left was a dull, melancholy weight resting on my shoulders.
And then I heard someone singing.
I looked up slowly and saw a man sitting across from me. He was wearing a dusty
white shirt and dirty jeans. In his lap rested a yellow construction helmet,
and around his neck hung and onk on a beaded string. He had large, well-proportioned
features, and puca shells dangled here and there from his short dread locks.
His head was leaned far back, resting on the window behind him and his eyes
were closed. The look on his face was of utter tranquility. And he was singing.
"Emancipate yourself from mental slavery; none but ourselves can free our
minds…"
His soft, low voice resonated in the warm, still air. His head rolled back and
forth slowly and his fingers drummed instinctively on the empty seat next to
him.
"Won't you help to sing these songs of freedom? It's all I ever had…Redemption
songs…These songs of freedom…"
His voice hung in the air for a moment, and in that moment it seemed pure. It
was like new snow that had never been walked in, or white honeymoon lingerie
that had never been worn. It was like ever cliché I had ever heard, and
yet with was also unlike anything that I had come across before.
"But my hands were made strong, by the end of the almighty…we followed
in this generation, triumphantly…"
The crappy day slunk away, like a naughty child or a scolded puppy, ashamed
of it's destructive decadence. The melodrama vanished. His words, borrowed from
Bob Marley, bounced around the bus like the warbled bubbles blown in a park;
the kind that can be caught on the tip of a finger for just a moment before
disappearing forever.
Suddenly his head jerked forward, his eyes opened. He said (in a normal voice,
that was now suddenly unremarkable, but still possessed a round quality) "How
do I get to University?"
"Man, you on the wrong bus," the bus driver responded, staring straight
ahead.
"I just got here a few days ago… I don't know where I'm going."
His speech had a strong Jamaican accent.
"Man, you need to get off here, cross the street and get on the bus going
to other way."
The Jamaican nodded and rose.
"You got a transfer?" the driver asked
"I don't have any money"
"Well then you can't get no transfer."
The Jamaican looked lost now, in a strange country with no quarter. His head
dropped and as it did, his dreads bobbed.
"I have change." He looked at me, startled, and I repeated myself.
"I can give you money for a transfer." I held out the coin and gave
him an encouraging, knowing look. I too, had been lost on public transportation.
Recognition of what I was offering flooded his face all at once and when he
spoke, his words were diluted by the breath of relief that escape from his throat.
"Oh thank you! Thank you, sister!" He took the quarter, exchanging
it for the driver's ready transfer, and descended down the steps, stopping to
look over his shoulder.
"You are blessed. You truly are," he tossed at me. His voice had regained
it's magic. He trumped down the steps and the door closed behind him.
