Why him?

The baby is still crying. Yelling. It is the only thing I can hear if I'm being honest. But it comes and goes, in sudden bursts that last a couple of minutes. I guess even tiny humans need to breathe and recharge energy sometimes. The mother has tried every trick in the book. She makes silly faces that come with their own and equally unadult noises. It is funny how grown-ups behave when interacting with babies. I am not shaming them, not at all. I do the same when I talk to my dog. I am the one talking. Starbuck -my American Foxhound- only listens. And not even that. Sometimes she tilts her head and just stares, judging me.

Going back to the mother and the kid. An old lady stops by the stroller and looks down, a sweet and sincere smile taking over her frail visage. She doesn’t seem to mind the wailing from the small human creature. She bends her body slowly, as if afraid of injuring her back. She does look that old, but then again, I've never been the best judge of people's ages. She looks as if she had been left to dry in the sun too long. She says something and giggles. I'm guessing the baby did something cute to awaken that emotion in the nice lady.

She keeps walking in deliberately small steps, helping herself by a long wooden cane. She sits in the last spot next to the glass wall leading outside, two rows away from me, next to a tall black man. She pulls out a book from her big dark blue purse and buries her face in it. I'd say she literally does that, but people keep teasing me for misusing that word. She figuratively buries her face, a mere couple inches separating her wide round spectacles from the pages.

For once, another sound takes over the undisputed reign of the crying baby. It's a phone ringing. I faintly recognize the tone. A song. I have heard it before. I recall myself liking it, but I could not give you the title. The tall black man answers. And he is tall indeed. He would have to glance down to speak to me, and I am not a short man; at least nobody has ever said that of me. By his impressive stature and broad shoulders -maybe even by him being black- I expect a deep commanding voice. Something like Morgan Freeman. The kind of voice that makes you shut up and listen. I am wrong. He has a soft tone to his speech, like a whisper but still audible.

The man shifts his legs while he talks on the phone, next to the nice old lady -yes I'll be calling her that now. I don't like eavesdropping, so I have no idea what he's saying. The only thing I notice, after just a few seconds, is the frail lady speaking up. She lowers her book and turns her gaze towards the man next to her. “You just sit here and start talking while I'm trying to read.” Her voice sounds scratchy, ripping her throat with every word. The tone matches her face, as if carved from cold marble. I can distinguish a frown hidden among the wrinkles on her forehead, right on top of those accusing eyes. She seems mad. Not the same nice lady that smiled warmly at a yelling baby just five minutes before.

The man glances at her, puzzlement in his eyes. He doesn't say anything, taken aback by the sudden reprimand that keeps coming in more heated waves. “Minding my own business and trying to pass the time.” She stops for a second, as if to add some drama to the scene. She scoffs loudly, a couple more faces turning to peek at what’s happening in an otherwise uneventful waiting room. “Such disrespectful people.” She adds, words hitting the air like a whip. She looks around the room in a slow movement, scouting for people's attention, as if she was at the stage of a theater voicing her lines. The spectators don't seem to mind at all. Some shake their head in disapproval, others just nod, but most merely lower their gaze back to the small screens in their hands, to addictive serotonin-releasing devices, craving attention from far-away strangers.

Disrespectful people, she had said. What does she mean? Who? Before I can elaborate my thoughts even further, the public announcement's metallic voice silences any other sound, including the not-so-nice-anymore lady and the crying baby. My bus has arrived. Our bus, I guess. I'm traveling alone, but I'll be sharing the vehicle, how one does nowadays. I'm going back to the city after visiting my parents. A short mandatory weekend trip for my mum's birthday.

I wait in line to board the bus. I should sit closer to the gate next time. I always think the same but then forget once I arrive at the terminal. Now I am one of the last to get into the packed warm vehicle. It smells of velvety seats, dust, and human bodies. Human scent, I mean, that particular mix of sweat, skin, and a myriad of cosmetics and perfumes. I just realized that saying the words human bodies makes me sound like a serial killer or something of the sorts.

I walk by the old lady. We lock eyes for a second and I somehow feel weird looking at her. I keep going further. I only see two spots left. My mild social anxiety kicks in, as it often does in public places. There's a seat next to the tall broad black man; another next to a scrawny looking teenager. I say teenager but he could be from fifteen to twenty-five years old. Bad with guessing ages, remember? I pass by the man, still talking on the phone, and sit next to the younger one, two rows behind.

I exchange a socially accepted nod of my head and a short hey with him. Not in the mood for deeper interaction. It instantly hits me, pretty literally. Okay figuratively, but it does feel like a punch straight to my nose. An acrid smell of sweat, the one that builds up in layers. Sweat upon sweat upon sweat. I peek at the boy next to me, his pale skin dotted with a few dark brown freckles crawling up the back of his neck. He shakes his head up and down at the rhythm of some music. I can hear it through his headphones. Techno or something like that. Loud. Whatever it is, he's living it. The head shakes are accompanied by some less dramatic arm movements, still intrusive to my personal space.

I can only stand a polite five minutes -give or take- before I excuse myself with a forced smile and glide through the aisle to the other empty spot. The man is not talking anymore. “Oh hello, sorry.” He says moving his bag from the seat and stuffs it between his legs. I am once again mesmerized by his silky voice. You know how when someone has long slender fingers everyone tells them they have pianist's hands? Well, this man has a poet's voice. Or at least that's my impression.

I let my body sink into the now completely vacant seat. The man smiles at me, and I return the smile. For the next couple of hours, I do something I very rarely see myself involved in... I actually talk to a stranger on the bus. I go on this long boring trip quite often, and I don't remember the last time I had a genuine conversation with anyone. The tall poet-voiced man with broad shoulders introduces himself as Trevon. For the span of the whole trip, I learn a lot more, and I even share information and stories about myself, something I seldom do, especially with people I have just met. And the funny thing is that, for the first time, the journey back home feels enjoyable. I am shocked when I start to notice a familiar landscape out the window. We have arrived. So soon?

We let some people get off the bus first. I've always hated that awkward moment, standing in the middle of the bus aisle while passengers bump into you with their bulky bags. Trevon shakes my hand and wishes me a good day. “Same to you. Have a nice day, man.” I say with a smile. We have even exchanged our Instagram! Crazy, right? He seems one of those men who could befriend anyone with his velvety voice and general knowledge, as well as an incredible ability to listen.

I get off the bus. Finally home! Not really. I still have half an hour trip on the subway, and that usually comes with unexpected -sometimes even unpleasant- crowds and situations. Last time a couple of teens indulged us with a full breakdance routine -I was gonna say dance but it would have been redundant-, an impressive feat to perform inside a subway car. Another time, this short-legged woman devoured two whole avocados as if they were oranges. She peeled them and bit them until only the big pit was left. Mesmerizing to watch. Not kidding, someone could write a memoir titled Stories from the New York Subway. But I am losing myself now, time to go back to the present.

I am looking around for the exit. I always get lost in big concrete and dimly lit public terminals. “Excuse me,” I start, catching the attention of a security guard. “How do I get out?” He directs me toward the nearest exit, clearly marked with a bright green EXIT panel. The man smiles, the grin barely perceptible on his plump round face, split by a dark bushy mustache.

His semblance shifts suddenly. A frown, pursed lips. I see him darting towards the bus. He stands in front of Trevon, stiff as an ancient Egyptian statue. I said before that I'm not a big fan of eavesdropping, but even I do it sometimes. “Can I see your ticket?” I hear the man ask in a level voice, not the same warm tone he had used with me, as if he's a completely different person. “Sure, I have it here somewhere.” Trevon answers. I see him opening his wallet while holding his bag with the other hand, like a clumsy entertainer juggling with his personal items. The scene goes on for a few seconds while the security guard taps his feet on the floor, growing impatient. His hand lays on the handle of his obsidian shiny baton. I see his knuckles going pale due to the pressure.

“It's okay, sir,” I break in, sliding into the tense scene with a mumble. “We were on the same bus.” The plump dark-haired man glances at me. No happy polite face this time, far from it. “I am sure of it. I just need to see his ticket.” The words clash like a whip. I can feel my cheeks going red. I have never been one for conflict. I am about to speak again but the man beats me at it. “Please, go along, sir.” He smiles at me again, but this time the grin does not reach his eyes. His voice holds a hint of exasperation, as if he has nothing else to say to me.

I walk away slowly, feeling somehow dirty for it. But there's nothing I can do, right? On the escalator going up, I catch a glimpse from the distance. Trevon is now alone, shoving things back into his bag. I guess he found the ticket and now everything is fine. It's all good. I let out a long loud sigh and turn around, checking the overhead panels that will lead me to the subway without me getting lost a dozen times.

An hour later I'm already home, bags unpacked, my hair still wet from the shower. My girlfriend is telling me about her weekend alone. I always have the feeling she is more productive when I'm not there. I don't know if I should take that as a compliment or not. “Hey, are you listening to me?” She says, poking my forehead with her smooth fingertips. She does that when I get lost in my own thoughts. And I have to admit her implied accusation is founded. I was not listening to her. Not entirely. Why did that security guard get so insistent on seeing his bus ticket? He had been traveling next to me, and he literally -this time I'm allowed to use it- got out of the bus a second after I did. And why on Earth did that lady go all berserk on him? It's not like he was even rivaling the baby, if we are strictly talking about decibels in here... Then it hits me. Why did I not sit next to him on the bus in the first place?

I am stirring those questions in my head when Karen -my girlfriend, that is- pokes me again, a mix of curiosity and worry paints her face. I'm sure it's nothing, just people having a bad day. I say to myself, as I have done before when I don't want to take the time to see what's in front of me. I have enough problems as it is.

Karen tells me about how she has decided to embark once again in her project to craft homemade candles with swirling colors. She has watched several tutorials online, and she assures me this time it will work. I chuckle at the comment and follow her into the living room. I can't wait to have dinner and fall asleep on the sofa watching one of those unremarkable movies that seem to be made exactly for that; falling asleep at their tedious and completely predictable plot.

The events of today don’t keep me from having a placid sleep. It’s how the world is. Some people have a bad day and are a bit mean to one another. It still bugs me, a faint voice at the back of my head, not enough to haunt me in my sleep. Why Trevon? He is such a nice guy. Why him?