I don’t normally ride city buses to get to any specific destination. I own a luxury car and use it occasionally when distance is an issue. Normally, I walk. I am, however, a bit lonely. I’m a bachelor and a retired professor of psychology. I like to study peoples’ behaviors, including facial expressions and general appearance, talking to themselves or mumbling, their physical tics, clothing, etc. It has become my hobby; boring and mindless to most people, but remarkably interesting to me.
I took my first psychology class as an undergraduate, wanting to learn about myself. However, after qualifying for a Bachelor of Arts in the subject, then a Master of Arts, followed by a PhD, I realize that my mental states and behaviors are no more inferior, nor superior to most people, though the word “normal” may be the most wasted, unnecessary, ambiguous, and debatable word in the English language, at least from a psychological reference point. During my thirty-year tenure, I had the opportunity to study the behaviors of thousands of young students. With students, the word “normal” is nonsense. “Crazy, fearless, immortal, immoral, and ignorant,” would be more meaningful. Using “normal” to describe them is like detecting a black ant as it crosses a black surface. You only end up saying, “WTF,” then moving on to something else, something easier. Adults are much less erratic and confusing. I see those people on each bus ride, different buses, different routes, different people to study.
My bachelor’s life is not bad, especially when it has marital benefits with a variety of partners. It’s a bit of selfishness on my part, but marriage and children simply did not appeal to me. You could say that I
was married to my work, hobbies, and solitude. It has worked for me.
I have always had a curious mind. I don’t mean normal (?) curiosity, more like extra curiosity. Most times it’s internal while I’m talking or asking questions of myself (lost in thought, sometimes). I’m an introspective introvert voyeur (the secondary definition of “voyeur” not the primary definition which refers to sex). I do it wherever I go: a mall, a restaurant, the library, etc. “It is what it is,” usually doesn’t set well with me (what else could “it” be?). “Why is it that way? I search for explanations.” When I take a shit, why do some turds sink and others float? Why is shit brown, not orange? Why is urine yellow? If the universe is infinite, is it infinite like a circle or linear? Doesn’t a circle, no matter how gargantuan, have limits or boundaries? Is the Big Bang theory, correct? Could an unimaginable, colossal object that went “bang” really have all the material in it to account for all the material in the universe? What existed before the “Big Bang?” How can something always exist when all its parts eventually become non-existent? If the universe can be eternal, and immortal, why are all its parts mortal? If nothing lives forever, how can infinity and the time-space relationship last? Is the human mind too primitive to understand certain things? Is it so primitive that it easily accepts superstition, no matter how outlandish or nonsensical it is? What is the missing link between apes and humans (semi-ape? Semi-human?) Is there a missing link?
“It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for certain that just ain’t so that gets you into trouble.” Even that quote, attributed to Mark Twain, was the subject of my curiosity. To my surprise, according to “quoteinvestigator.com,” Samuel Clements never said that in his novels, essays, witticisms, diaries, or correspondences. Quote Investigator says the quote was first mentioned and attributed to Twain in 1899, but it was found in Josh Billings’s book An Encyclopedia and Proverbial Philosophy of Wit and Humor,
published in 1874. So much of what we think we know just ain’t so.
Skepticism is very much in demand, yet claims little attention, even by the most intelligent minds, concerning all subject areas, especially in history books where the winners decide the content and details of stories and the explanations that will be printed in books. Denial of the rampant fiction in revered books is also overwhelming. Another object of my curiosity is, “Just how much of what I believe is bullshit?” Opinions are a waste of time. They are mostly based on feelings, not facts. Opinions are subjective thoughts (what is your opinion about mathematics), not objective facts (3 plus 2 equals 5). Opinions are like assholes, it’s just that some of them stink much more than others.
I’m at the 42nd Street Bus Station in NYC. I’m often here to select a bus that runs to local destinations. In NYC there is no shortage of such buses. As I said, I’m not destined to be anywhere, I’m just riding the bus, observing people, speculating about their behaviors, and then casual contemplation (subjective).
I chose my bus, entered, and seated myself behind an older man who attracted my attention by tightly gripping what looked like a regular letter mailing envelope. I noticed there was no return address, no addressee, and no stamp. With aroused curiosity, I sat behind him. As I was sitting, he turned around to face me. “Hi. I’m Joe.” I was surprised, paused, then replied, “Hello Joe. I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Paul.”
The corners of his lips spread slightly looking for a minimal smile. Joe seemed as if he wanted to talk away his nervousness, but as soon as the bus was on its way, Joe turned around and was quiet. Curious behavior, indeed. I sat quietly, thinking that if he wanted to strike up a conversation, I’d let him, otherwise I’d leave him alone. That’s how I’d
want to be treated. He had finger and hand tremors, but he was smiling as he looked at the envelope, so I attributed his tremors to happiness and excitement about something personal involving the envelope’s contents.
He looked to be in his eighth decade, unshaven, flaccid cheeks, with deep wrinkles, and unruly white hair with typical male-pattern-baldness at the crown of his skull. He was not poorly dressed, but his clothes were ones found at better thrift stores. But his sneakers were brilliantly white and looked new, making a stark contrast to his clothes. Three things
particularly aroused my curiosity about Joe: the white envelope, the white sneakers, and the unusually deep parallel lines on his forehead; so deep that they looked as if a family of farmer ants thought his forehead was a field for growing things, so they plowed several furrows across the field of his forehead. And yet, his smile was broad, and his eyes glistened with moisture as he looked at his white envelope as if it were filled with diamonds. He may have had a hard life with frequent struggles, stresses, and anxieties. His nose was bulbous with tiny red capillaries showing. That happens to many alcoholics. Some relapses and recoveries could explain why he was alone and dressed as he was.
He turned to look out the window and squinted at the bright light
reflecting off the fresh snowfall of last night. He shaded his eyes with a visor made from his hand, like a military salute then, remembering something, he reached downward and produced a baseball-style cap that said, “St. Jude’s Home for the Elderly.” I was familiar with its location because it was only three or four blocks from St. Patrick’s church. This home for the elderly was being funded, at least in part, by the church. After seeing his hat, I stopped worrying about his homelessness.
My curiosity peaked as I wondered what he was thinking. Why the broadest of smiles and why such a tight grip on the envelope that made his fingertips pale as the blood was pushed out of them? When his lips moved, what was he saying? A wish? A prayer?
Low-volume Christmas music helped most people to relax before they had to continue their rigorous and vigorous daily work, family, and holiday stresses. The ride became rougher as we passed through road construction that seemed more like road destruction areas. Joe’s body jiggled, jumped, and shifted as did all the riders, and it amazed me that he could fall asleep so fast and so soundly.
We arrived at the mall drop-off point ten minutes later. The bus glided to a smooth stop in its designated area as Joe continued to sleep. I was about to wake him when the bus driver came to his seat and touched Joe’s shoulder. “We’re at the mall, Joe.” They knew each other, and Joe had asked him to wake him at the mall if he fell asleep. Joe was startled awake. “You wanted to get off here, Joe.”
“Oh. Yes. I did. Thanks, Ralph,” Joe stated in a voice that was garbled and still full of sleep mixed with mild confusion. Joe blinked his eyes, rubbed them, and then shook his head as if wanting to shake out the mental cobwebs. When his brain clicked into clarity, he rushed off the bus and quickly walked to the main mall entrance like a man on an important mission.
A bevy of new bus riders entered the bus and took seats. Soon the bus was quiet, and I thought that was grand. Riding the bus with strangers is usually a quiet, contemplative experience because strangers seldom talk to each other. They usually mind their own business and will rarely look at the other riders, especially those behind them. What seems like discomfort to them is luxurious to me as I seek comfort in silence.
I leaned forward and rested my forearm on the back of what was Joe’s seat. When I looked downward, I saw a fraction of dirty white sticking out between the seat and the metal side of the bus. I quickly changed seats before anyone could sit there, then recovered the envelope. It was stuffed with money. I could not see how much money it contained because the envelope was sealed, but the way Joe had so tightly held
onto it made me think that he had been saving his money for a long time and something or someone special. The thrift store clothes he was wearing, and his uncaring physical condition also made me think the money was not to be used on himself. My eyes filled with sadness and tears for the shock and angry disappointment that I knew would engulf Joe when he realized that he’d lost his treasure.
I didn’t know what to do other than report it to the bus driver. I introduced myself to him and he let me know his name was Ralph, that he’d driven this route for years and only knew Joe as a frequent rider from St. Jude’s. They seldom had a chance to talk except for a short sentence upon entering and departing the bus.
“Not much I can do about that,” Ralph said, “except report it to the bus station headquarters who will fill out a report and send it to the nearest police station. “Not much will happen, I’m afraid, especially with the hectic and chaotic holiday busyness. It’s prime time crime shoplifting season, plus slippery roads causing accidents, party time causing complaints, and the resulting drunk drivers …” His sentence just trailed off without a definitive ending. He looked up at me and shrugged his shoulders. “You know as well as I do that if you turn it over to someone else, it’s going to get stolen. A lucky, Christmas time bonanza for someone.” Then he seemed startled by a sudden thought. “Oh! Wait?”
He reached into his glove compartment and took out a card. He handed the card to me. “You look like an honest man. Here.” It was a printed card, like a business card, with St. Jude’s name, address, and phone number. “He sometimes has trouble remembering when to get off and that problem is made worse by how easily he can fall asleep. The poor guy has been saving for months to get his grandson a special gift for Christmas. A bike, I think. Here, you can have the card.”
“I don’t need it. I’ll use my phone to take a picture of it. I know where St. Jude Home is anyway. I can find him.” Ralph replaced the card in the glove compartment. “Good luck,” he said as I stepped off the old bus,
choking on the diesel exhaust. I turned and looked at the bus windows and saw little Christmas cheer, not sad, but tired faces and postures, maybe worrying about the debts the Christmas season created for them. Christmas wasn’t about Christ anymore. Ask any kid. Santa is their God.
The plethora of busy shoppers created a steady stream, a human herd rushing in both directions, creating a snowy slush that splattered low, in all directions. I knew now that it was hopeless for me to find Joe. I stood still, wondering what to do. Lost in thought, I was slammed into by unruly and undisciplined children gone wild even though their parents were in sight. I slipped on the slush but righted myself. I glared at the parents as they progressed past me, not saying a word to me or their kids. And that caused me not to pay attention to the stream of shoppers, one of which was a man in hunting boots who slipped and righted himself by stepping on my big toe. “Fuck!” I thought. This is useless. I need to get home and away from the stampeding human cattle.
No more local bus rides around town, nor mall visits for me until after New Year’s Day. I found a nearby taxi and had a silent, and peaceful ride home. It was a wonderful ride in silence. Silence is golden.
It was a blessed relief getting to my comfortable apartment where it was warm and quiet and where the alcohol was waiting for me. I made a cup of coffee and added Jameson’s Irish whiskey to it. I didn’t want noise, so the TV stayed off. I wanted to find out what happened to Charlie in the 1958 short story Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes. An emotional story that I read with some familiarity. In a few thoughtful moments, I realized that I had seen the 1968 movie decades ago. The title then was CHARLY starring Cliff Robertson. Even from that long ago, I remember it was the year I got out of the Navy. A day or two before my discharge, I went to a theater and saw the movie. Even then it had a profound effect on me as I imagined being Charly. I no longer wonder who or what Algernon was and why he should get flowers. The title seems inappropriate until the short story is read, the tears arrive, and clarity
grips you concerning the title.
As I was finishing the last few pages, Frosty, my male, white-furred terrier mix jumped onto my lap. I gave him the attention he wanted and finished the coffee and the story as I rubbed his ears, neck, and chest. I call him, “my little boy.” My little boy turned onto his back, and I scratched his white chest as loose hairs stuck to my pants and fingers. I felt his warmth and relaxed. Happy. Tomorrow, while my apartment is being cleaned, I’ll go to St. Jude to return Joe’s envelope.
I visited Joe the next morning. It was a wintery morning with light snowfall. The snow was falling in large flakes that, if you could attach a toothpick underneath the center of them, would look like floating white umbrellas. They hit the front window of my white, 2016 CT6 Luxury Cadillac and melted, but for just a second, before they melted, I could see beautiful, intricate designs. How could none of them be alike? A trillion billion of them through the years and none would be alike, identical? How would anyone know if that is true? Can’t study snowflakes easily.
When I arrived, I asked to see Joe but was informed that he was at a doctor's appointment. I left a note for him saying I had found his envelope. My name, address, and phone number were listed. That evening we arranged to meet at the nearby Starbucks where I returned his money to him. “Thanks so much,” he said, teary-eyed.
It got quiet, no one knowing what to say next. I started by saying I was happy for him and, also, that I felt good about doing a good deed. We both sipped our coffee, both of us using it as an excuse for not talking. I gave myself a chance to think, but Joe spoke first. “It’s money that I’ve been saving since summer to buy a really good bike for my grandson.”
Joe and I talked. I told him the details of how I knew him and witnessed his misfortune. He went on to praise me, but I stopped him and said, “A
gift of happiness for those not so fortunate was also a gift for me.” Now, to my relief, the money was no longer talked about. Many years ago, I had risked all my savings of five thousand dollars to buy I.B.M. stock. Over the last fifty years, my professor’s low salary was never a concern to me. I was, however, lonely and had no one to share my time with. My will would donate a generous sum of money to the ASPCA (American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals).
Joe bought his grandson a four-hundred-dollar HIGHLAND, ten-speed, Mountain Bike. Joe said that when twelve-year-old Allan saw it, he broke out into tears and hugged his grandpa tightly, wetting the tummy of Joe’s shirt. I was delighted to hear the story.
In future weeks, Joe, Ralph, and I struck up a close friendship. We met at my apartment every Saturday evening. We played cards, watched movies, visited O’Brian’s Pub just down the street, walked in the park, and ate dinner at a restaurant of Joe’s or Ralph’s choice which, surprisingly, was usually a diner or a “hole in the wall” eatery. If the diner was close, we’d meet there, by walking or taking a bus. When we took a bus (Ralph enjoyed being a passenger, not the driver), if the diner was inconvenient via bus, I drove all of us to it. It was remarkable the store of dirty crazy jokes that both Joe and Ralph had. I knew a few, of course, but I let them tell theirs without interruption. Many of them were funny, or humorously gross, and not even close to politically correct. At my apartment, we were all rowdy about each other’s jokes. Crazy, dirty old men having fun at the end of the day.
Our friendship lasted, so after a couple of years Ralph retired, setting us all free during the day. We met more often and had many pleasurable times, especially at Christmastime. I set up a college trust fund for Joe’s nephew, Allan, and Ralph’s nephew and niece. Their college educations would be funded until they graduated. The money would stop if they quit. They’d receive a substantial bonus if they graduated. I also set up a monthly allotment for Joe’s and Ralph’s families. If I were to die first,
then Joe or Ralph would take care of Frosty (they agreed). Joe had already moved out of St. Jude’s to live with his son and family. A short talk with Joe’s nephew, Allan, resulted in him taking care of Frosty if I died and neither Joe nor Ralph could do it. Money for everyday supplies, veterinarian bills, drugs, etc. would accompany the dog.
A codicil was added to my will donating thousands to St. Jude, and much more to The Alliance to End Homelessness. I had already been donating to the American Cancer Society. To make homelessness more focused in their local area money was allocated to local area homelessness organizations. In these ways, I could smile knowing I’d be able to help people in need, after my death.
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