Miracle Man

So I'd been sitting on the bus since Indianapolis.  Sleeping upright with the back of the seat in front of me mashed into my knees.  Not sleeping, actually, more like I was exploring that pergatory of consciousness.  That place where sleep and wakefulness twine together to create some seriously messed up perceptions.  Having spent years on third shift, it is a state I'm familiar with, but it seems the older I get the less I like it.

Anyway, the cabin lights impaled my pupils as the driver announced that we were making a short stop at Gary, IN.  New passengers filed down the aisle scanning for empty seats, and I was only half aware that somebody sat down beside me.  What with the light drilling into my unprepared eyes.  The sound of shuffling, pressure on my arm, a sack of something heavy and hard landed beside my foot, the sound of a pop-top.  The lights went out, and the crawl to Chicago resumed.

"Where you headed?"

"Huh?"

"Where you goin'?"

"Chicago."  I turned back to the window.  The sack rustled.   Crunching of potato chips.

"You go to church?"

". . . What?!"

"Hey man, I'm just tryin' to pass the time."  I tried to go back to the Limbo of Nod, but my conscience was wide awake now.  Seems it thought I was guilty of some injustice of etiquette.

"No, I haven't been in a while.  You?"

"No."

Gee, I'm glad we got that out in the open.  The bus rattled on, and I began working on what would later become a serious kink in my neck.   Sleep danced a little closer, but stayed just out of reach.

"You like to help people don't you?"

My head snapped around, and for the first time I looked him square in the eye.  What the hell kinda question is that?  Do I like to help people?   "Eh, sometimes."

"Well . . . mind if I tell you something?"

Am I carrying a staff?  Am I wearing a beanie or a funny little pointed hat?  Do I friggin' look like my name is John Paul?   "Sure, go ahead."

"Well, four years ago this girl said she was having my baby."  He paused to take another swig of Dr. Pepper.  Four years I paid for that kid, and last week she says it ain't mine.  So I've been trying to get back to my kin. &nsbp;Stay with them for awhile until I can get back on my feet.  Ain't eaten in two days."

"I ain't got nothing for you," I said.  Which was true, but it was more of a reflex.  A response I'd been conditioned to give by the fortyleven panhandlers and confidence people I pass every day on the street.

"Damn.  I don't believe . . ."  His voice trailed off as he turned away from me.  I turned back to the window and my masochistic endeavor to permanently misalign my vertebrae.

An hour or so later, the lights came on as we hit the 95th street station.  I blinked around to see that Mr. Hard Luck had moved across the aisle and was laughing with his new seatmate.  I watched as this guy that hadn't eaten for two days miraculously pulled a large bag of Doritos and another Dr. Pepper out of his sack.  A modern day miracle man.

Playing on my conscience and emotions.   Do I like helping people?   Phuqüe, you puke.