A Soothsayer in Disguise

A Soothsayer in Disguise

He approached the counter with two large suitcases. Although it cost him a few extra dollars, he had decided to change buses and buy a new ticket at the border-town. He had been on the bus for days, for so many hours he had lost count. He looked disheveled; his body odor had begun to betray him.

The counterwoman was a pretty Mexican with a tight body and a pair of over-plucked eyebrows.

“A donde vas?”

“En ingles, si puedes, por favor.” A lack of conversational Spanish wasn’t the problem. Having just set foot in the United States for the first time in eight months, a little ingles seemed ceremonial.

The Latina, surprisingly, did not take his request as a personal affront. “Where would you like to go?”

“Cleveland.”

“It is better to continue the same bus.”

“I need some time to rest. It’s been a long trip.”

“O.K.”

“Costa Rica.”

“That is a long trip. The other bus that leaves for the northeast is at 3:30. Is this too late?”

“It’s perfect.” Being high morning, he had five hours for R&R.

He paid with a Visa set to expire in six months. After exchanging a few pleasantries in Spanish, (he didn’t want to appear pretentious or condescending), he left the service counter. He sensed the Latina’s eyes lock onto him as he walked toward the exit. (Despite a loaded backpack, duffle-bag and wheelie-suitcase, he manages to handle his belongings with definitive ease.) While swinging his duffle-bag through the door, their eyes held contact, gratuitously without boundaries.

Within a thousand feet of the station there was a motel shabby enough to be a flophouse. It was called the Last Hurrah Motel. Upon checking in he received a 50% discount, due to his only planning to stay three hours. He arrived solo, so the clerk treated him like a regular, there for a romantic rendezvous, also known as a quick fuck.

The room was infested. The thirteen inch TV, which hung affixed to the wall and lacked a remote with batteries, didn’t require a quarter at least. Still, the reception was poor. The set was so old it had seven preset buttons. And two were broadcasting ‘Telenovelas’; he figured he had seen enough Spanish Soaps over the past eight months to last most people two lifetimes. He turned off the TV and sat on the bed, whose sheets had a palpable film of dirt to them. He thought, “It’s not dirt really, it’s just a coefficient of friction too low for cloth.” After a short nap, he got up and took a shower; the water was hard but drinkable. He found himself very thankful for clean water.

After he left the motel, he found himself eating a spicy Tex-Mex burrito and watching a soccer match between two teams from the Yucatan. Neither team was very good, therefore the match played like a sort of synchronized pinball. Normally, he would take out a book or newspaper and risk savoring his lunch at the expense of information; not this time, though. His mind was filled with memories from teaching English in a pueblo on the outskirts of the capital. The experience had both solidified and turned upside-down his worldview, through a kind of inner Socratic dialogue, only achievable among highly evolved minds. He tried to contain his excitement of returning home, seeing his parents, friends and a girl he once knew. The prospect of seeing her again made him so excited he could barely even blink.

Back to the soccer match. Around the 65^th minute one team finally scored a header off their corner kick. I sure miss baseball, he thought. For him, the element of detail, and statistical detail in particular, made baseball the ultimate team sport. Although his team, the Indians, were steadfastly playing themselves out of contention, he looked forward to a few upcoming afternoon games, eating oversized hotdogs and drinking overpriced beers. Still, his time in Latin America had focused his perception on the similarities between baseball and soccer, namely, the athlete’s artistic gesture and the divine patterns which could erupt on the field (especially from a bird eye’s view). He concluded that, in a century or two, extrapolating current immigration patterns, soccer will trump baseball in popularity in the United States.

He returned to the station after an insignificant period of time, luggage and all, and boarded the Greyhound for his final destination. (The Latina was not there.) Granted, there would be significant stops along the way, maybe even a delay or two, but he was prepared for any unforeseen catastrophe. Unfortunately for him, he committed what hardened veterans consider a cardinal error when riding Greyhound: boarding the bus too quickly. As a result, one does not get their pick of the litter and is often stuck with a scraggly sojourner. Sitting in the window seat, he left himself vulnerable to the hodgepodge of whack-jobs who take American public transportation. A man in lederhosen occupied the window seat directly across the aisle. At least two heavily lacquered and powerfully perfumed prostitutes chose seats near the front of the bus. After an elderly black lady and a mixed younger couple, an Asian-American cowboy boarded, replete with stirrups and a fringed suede jacket. He may actually have been Native American, but that would only have added to his farcical value.

The aisle seat next to the Clevelander remained unoccupied until a true character sat down: a pseudo-tramp with a tangible odor. The mesh pocket on the outside of his camper backpack held a peanut butter jar with a mysterious liquid sloshing around inside. Of all the ne’er-do-wells, this man was the piece de resistance.

“How do you do, son? Name’s Arthur McNeil, but call me Art for short.”

“Hi, Chris.” The Clevelander’s terseness was almost rude, but it was more a baffled silence at his strange stroke of circumstance.

“Man of few words. I like that. Well, Chris, I’m goin’ on to Cincinnati, gonn’ be stuck right here fo’a while. How ‘bout you?”

“A little further, Cleveland.”

“Fellow Ohioan? That’s what it’s all about. Well, if y’wanna break up the boredom with some conversation, I’m all ears.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” By this point, the bus had pulled out of the terminal and was making its way towards the highway. Chris put on his headphones, listening to a modern group with a retro image. He pretended to fall asleep. After some time, he actually did.

Some hours later, the bus, heading northeast, was still attempting to navigate itself through Texas. Chris awoke and began to read the Saramago novel he had purchased in Mexico City. As a rule, he normally refrained from reading translated works, but he figured that the original Portuguese was close enough to his Spanish copy that it was the same difference. He bought the book not necessarily because he wanted to, but rather because to him Saramago belonged to a newly-formed canon of “contemporary” authors; as a result he felt obligated to read it. He was enjoying the metaphysicality of the plot but it irritated him how the dialogue was not broken into separate paragraphs.

After a few minutes he turned to the man, who was sleeping rather peacefully. One expects such vagabonds to be loud snorers, but this man took deep, muted breaths through his nostrils. He seemed better put-together than your typical straggler, wearing a jacket not unlike the typical professorial type: tweed with plaid patches at the elbows. His rank odor had subsided, much less pungent than previously anticipated. The man’s breathing became more intermittent until ceasing completely. Chris looked on and became more disturbed than worried. Unexpectedly, the man’s eyelids shot open. He craned his neck ninety degrees and winked.

“Gotcha!”

Had Chris been chewing a piece of gum, he would’ve required the Heimlich. “I’m really sorry sir. I just glanced over, just for a second.”

“Liar! I feltum gazin on me. Two can play ‘de old actin’ game, no?”

“I’m really sorry. Please don’t take it personally.”

“I don’. Fact, I’d quite ad’myre your level or curiosity. Gary from Cleveland, right?”

“No, Chris.”

“Ah right. I forgit things. So, what you doin’ riding Grayhound?”

“Am I not the Greyhound type?”

“Why I’d supposed not. I’z just dead terrified flying.”

Chris found it hard to believe that this man could afford a plane ticket anywhere. “I see. What were you doing down here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Laredo. Brother dead. Moto’cycle.

“I’m so…”

“Don’t he’uz a sunufabitch.”

Following that, almost 8 minutes of silence passed between the two men. Presumably the vagabond was ruminating over what exactly made his brother a sunufabitch. Finally, the man, after scratching his body for several seconds, said, “got brothers or sisters?”

“Nah.” Chris regretted having to give this stigmatized response.

But the response did not seem to affect the vagabond one way or the other. “And what’re ya doin’ catchin’ the bus on the border town? Not awfully suspicious?”

“Not quite. I’ve been teaching English in Costa Rica since November. But I sold my ticket back to a friend from Pittsburgh teaching with the same group who only had a one way.”

“I presum’d incorrect?”

“I guess you did.” Finally the young man’s latent garrulousness had been triggered. “Well, I wanted to go see the Panama Canal anyway, but I didn’t have time unless I could switch my flight. So I sold it to my friend and got the money back. We had a hell of a time switching with Delta, but it was worth it for the both of us. Win-win situation. Now I can say I’ve been over a decent stretch of the Pan-American highway.”

“Just little bit, though.”

“Yeah, but you can’t get to South America without a ferry. Derriden Gap.”

“I kno’.”

“O.K. Gotcha.”

The next day. Both gentlemen had slept successfully for several hours, despite contorted positions and brief spells of half-consciousness. Those hours passed, voided by the concrete, that great material of nation-building. Time resumed once both had awoken and begun shuffling through their assets. Chris, the young Clevelander, took two apples out of his backpack and washed them in a puddle of evaporating bottled water in his left palm. He offered the second apple to his new friend.

“Thanks,” said the vagabond silently.

“Do you know what state we’re in?”

“Missoura, I thaught.” He replied with his best attempt at mimicking the Missouri, turning the final ‘I’ into a soft ‘A’.

“The show-me state.”

“You got that.” With this being their third or fourth conversation, the vagabond felt a sort of camaraderie developing between them. Especially in light of the mealy apple. He decided to ask a semi-personal question.

“How them chicas in Costa Rica?”

“Um, I dunno, it depends.”

“What kinda response you mean that to be?”

“Well, you just gotta live and learn I guess. I was seeing this girl and things were going well. But then after a while, probably almost two months, I found out she had a kid. Really took me by surprise.”

“Damaged goods.”

A sad smile crept over the young Clevelander’s face. “I guess most people do say that. I just wish she had told me.” The vagabond spent a couple seconds pining for his lost youth. Then Chris broke the vagabond’s momentary reverie. “It’s not a problem now. It was, but not now. There’s a girl in Cleveland I’m crazy about, so hopefully this too shall pass.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah we’d gone out a few times a while before I left and things were going real swell. But when she just stopped answering my calls, I was a wreck. It’s probably the reason I decided to go teach in Costa Rica. Eventually I figured out that we had this mutual friend…this friend who I had sort of treated unkindly…just bad karma.”

By this point the story had thoroughly captivated the vagabond. “Sounds like a fine kettle of fish. That friend starts buggin’ ya, that might just tell ‘ya sumthin. But if she got legs it’s worth it.”

“Yeah, the best,” Chris said, with a dreamy look in his baby-bedroom-blue eyes.

“Well, keed, she sound real sweet. But, and ya herd it hear first, you don’ wan’ nuthin’ to do with this girl. Better believe me it got disaster written all over it.

Chris was speechless. “I haven’t even told you what she’s like.”

But the vagabond was intent on changing the subject. “Y’wanna know how it was my brother really died?”

“You said from a motorcycle.”

“Yeah I did and he did die that way.” Cryptically he added, “But we ain’t get to talkin’ bout causation.”

The vagabond took the eye contact (much more a glance) to signify a green light for him to proceed with the telling of his story.

“Stuff like this happens. But if it hits home it hits hard, like a earthquake. These people get too far way from themselves they can’t tell down from up. My brother may have been a son-of-a-betch, but his redeeming quality was him being a hard worker. Got up every day for sixteen years at 6AM to go to a shit-for-brains job at the Boeing plant. People would say he’uz better than me for that, but I always beg to differ! But he paid his bills and he even own a small house and a bike and a truck too. He do some hendywork round the neighborhood from time to time. But that, my friend, was the beginning of his troubles.”

“Woman from a few streets over, bit of a hypochondriac, with her house that is, always rethinking things over and shit. So her and my brotha was a perfect match. For about a six month period, he go over there every Saturday work round the house. You know, cut the grass fix the spigot, the usual. They both single – she divorcee, him never married. For a long time they remained, uh,,, platonic. At least that’s what I hear from her.

“So one day this woman wants her kitchen floor gutted and ceramic installed in place of vinyl. My brother, he done the job. He’d been saving his sick days and uh about to take the sabbatical. Anyway, he take that sabbatical and after this job commences she go seduce him, or the other way around I’m not sure. But, things got pretty good between them. They had what they need. People ain’t world travelers like yourself, heh, but they got what they need, you catch my drift?”

“I hear you.”

“Good. I’ll allow myself to continue. Arnold my brother done pulling up about 80 percent of the floor there’s this chest in the ground. Er’uz uh recession in the floor looked liked it had just been laid some specific spot made for it there. Even lift this shit out the hole you had to break the foundation around it. But he finally break the lock open up the chest and there’s cash, glorious dirty cash, 167 thousand dollars of it! These people waste most their time tryin’ figure out how not get screwed on water bills or some shit. Cryin’ out loud. So Sitting front of them right here is enough money live a couple years at least. People goin’ buck wild!

“Of course money don’t belong to them, so they go file a report they go to city hall file all that rigmarole and shit but it turned out earliest owners the home records got washed out in a flood in the 70’s or some shit. Arnie and his girl treated themselfs nicely, so they really got to a point they wanted that money you know what I’m saying. So my brother assume they’re splittin’ it up evenly, they got the money goes without saying, but she only willing part ‘bout 20 percent of it. ‘Why’s it even matter if we love each other honey baby?’ But it does matter. So he flips out takes off, ehh you know he probably come back in a day or two.

“I bet you figured out the rest this story. Shit sure you filled them blanks by now. My brother ride a bike. People who ride tell ya they love ridin off steam of a bike. Stuff dangerous by definition just about. So you get your heads stuck in the clouds there you’ll sure be in for trouble. Flattened. THwoop! He hit a pothole get thrown from his bike 75 feet. Fuckin’ dead by time he gets to county general. He ain’t wearin no helmet, still, who you think’s to blame?

“Geez, that’s really something.”

“I say story’s like a parable. You or I ought just go round telling that story. People learn something and we’d make some money in ‘da process.”

“But still, I don’t understand. You said you didn’t like your brother, and yet you still take his side.”

“Shit oil runs thicker than water my friend.”

“True. But you talk about causation. If he hadn’t gotten upset over his share, he wouldn’t have died and you wouldn’t be here sitting next to me. You talk about causation, but another issue is property rights. I definitely don’t see him winning his case with one of those afternoon TV judges.”

“You may be barking at the right bush there. But what I’uz sayin’ was lay off that almost-girl of yours. She named trouble.”

Now Chris became flushed and visibly irritated. “Thanks but I’ll roll the dice.”

“Haven’t you learned nothin’?”

“Apparently not.”

And with a memory of past betrayal in his eyes, the vagabond said flatly, in a didactic manner, “can’t trust nobody.”

“I disagree.”

“What’s your age now?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Christ. Just a baby. You just don’t know got your whole life ahead of ya’.”

They quickly exchanged a look which communicated the gravity of their previous statements. Although both wanted to speak again, neither did. Each was paralyzed by the strength of his own thought. Persuasion was simply impossible.

Until the bus arrived in Cincinnati, nobody said a word.