Old Times

Old Times

“Have you ever considered running away from yourself?”

“Is that even possible?”

That is how it began that night outside the bus depot. How I got there, I had no recollection. There was a small suitcase I didn’t recognize sitting on the bench beside me, the rain seemed to start and stop without provocation; I was wet, cold, and exhausted. The woman sitting next to me on the bench acted as though I didn’t exist. I was surprised by how natural it felt.

I have a habit of talking to myself, answering my own questions, giving myself directions.

“Is it possible to be dead and not know it?” My question a reasonable one I believed under the circumstances. I wasn’t expecting an answer, although I’ve learned to never give up on the chance that less could be more, although sometimes nothing is less than hoped for.

The old woman on my bench has begun to irritate me for no particular reason. I was raised to respect people, all types, and shapes, young and old. I feel an obligation to speak to someone sitting next to me, and looking to be in of the same predicament as me. I’m just speculating, but why else would someone sit on a bench in the rain next to a complete stranger and act like they didn’t exist? It’s only happened to me once before and that was when I was younger, before air travel became so dangerously unpredictable.

I sat by a younger woman who pretended to read a magazine, it was upside down. I assumed the pretense because she preferred not to talk to me, I understand. There are many people I do not wish to talk to, but then I know them. I had no intention of talking to her anyway, but the way she was acting made me nervous about doing something I hadn’t thought about doing. That type behavior on my part stems from my inability to relax and accept the fact that the rest of the world doesn’t operate on the wave length that I do. I sat for over two hours watching her nibble stale cookies, drink soda, and listen to messages from the Captain asking us to not leave our seats unless necessary; turbulent air.

I asked the stewardess what the Captain meant by necessary? She pretended to not hear me and shuffled off down the aisle with a bag of peanuts in her hand, and me wishing she’d chose those instead of the cookie. The woman by the window kept fooling with the window shade. If I had wanted to take a nap it would have been impossible. I began to wonder if she had prepared herself mentally for the flight. She hadn’t asked for anything from the attendant, and when I put half my cookie on her tray table next to her book, she didn’t utter so much as a thank you. She was beginning to test my limits.

When the plane landed the window woman didn’t move. Everyone else was trying to stand up and get their belongings out of the overhead closet, bumping into each other, stepping on each other’s toes, but she just sat there like she had all the time in the world and no place to be. Her eyes were closed, her breathing rhythmic; I thought about putting my hand on her throat to see if she was alive, but then thought better of it, you never know how people are going to react to kindness. Respectful or not, I wasn’t going to just sit there when the line of people started to move toward the front, so I picked up my bag and followed them. I had considered asking if she needed help with her bag, but after the way she’d ignored me, I decided some people deserve themselves. As I was leaving the plane I looked back and she was gone. Where she went I couldn’t guess, or did I try. There was no place to go, and yet she was gone. But then she was good at doing nothing, and seemingly enjoying it.

Sometimes when I get to remembering what had happened in the past, I forget about what’s happening in the present. At times like that I like to think about what might be going to happening in the future. I know it’s just dreaming or wishful thinking, and the chance of it coming true is probably less than the chance of it getting below a hundred degrees in Phoenix, but it’s one of those habits that’s hard to break. I pulled myself back from the future and looked toward the end of the bench and the old woman was still there, she hadn’t moved an inch. She had a kerchief tied around her head and it was dripping from the rain, and her coat looked to be sagging as well. Tufts of matted hair were stuck to her forehead, but her complexion looked like nothing I’d ever seen. She had the glow of a new light bulb. I felt obliged to say something, which could bring up other problems that I’m no good at solving; what to say, when to say it, how to say it, stressful.

You don’t want to be too forward or you could get arrested. And you don’t want to be too soft spoken or she’d think you were up to something. Getting it just right is a difficult thing to pull off, especially when it’s raining. I weighed the pros and cons of what would be the best way to alleviate the feeling of not being respectful enough, and when I pulled my eyes from the puddle on the street, she was gone. I didn’t know if I’d done something wrong, or didn’t do enough, or maybe too much, but it didn’t matter now, she’d disappeared. And a good thing too, the bus was coming.

It was down about a block and as luck would have it the rain quit. Always seems to go that way; rains mostly when you’re outside. Can’t say I’ve ever seen it rain inside, except maybe once after the barn roof blew off and we still had to do chores; my dad was a stickler for doing what needed doing, no matter if what needed doing was any longer there, so we’d have something to do to it. He said, “It is the principle of the thing.” I understood what he was getting at, even though I thought it was stretched a mighty thin and could be considered debatable.

I decided to go in the depot now that the rain had quit. I was supposed to have gotten on the bus, but it whizzed passed me like I wasn’t there. I guess I’d have to walk the four blocks to the hotel I was thinking about staying at. ut first I was going to get some coffee at the café, and see if it would change my spirit to a more accommodating type. I hate being upset over things I can’t do anything about, although there are times when you get upset because you think you’re supposed to. This might have been one of those times. It is hard to tell when you are upset because everything and everyone seem to be out of sorts. It reminded me of the fence post staring contest we had on the 4th of July at the fairgrounds.

I sat at the counter and waited, and waited, and waited, and the waitress kept coming by, but not stopping. I never thought much about people who wave in a crowd, so I just cleared my throat in kind of an authoritarian manner. It didn’t work either. I finally gave up on the coffee and decided that it being late in the day it was probably a good thing. It isn’t that coffee keeps we awake, but I start thinking about it keeping me awake and the next thing you know it’s time to get up, and I haven’t slept a wink. I decided not having coffee was for the best, and I would walk to the Hotel Olly. I’d stayed there before, but it had been twenty years ago. It wasn’t a high-end Hotel at the time, but then I didn’t have much money either, so that made it the right place for me to stay.

It’s funny what you remember when you aren’t trying. There was this guy named Gus, most people called him Gustavo, but I called him Gus cause of the type of place he was working at. thought calling him Gus would make him feel better about himself having to work in a place like that, but then things were tough and that’s probably all he could find. I’d been in a place like that once myself. I was in the fourth grade at the time and smaller than everyone else, so they made me play on the girls dodgeball team. It was OK, I didn’t mind much because I didn’t know how to play dodgeball and I had my only friend Irma teaching me the ropes.

I started thinking about Irma and realized how much that old lady on the bench looked like her, or would have looked like her if she had been that old lady. Decided I’d better get walking, getting dark, and the papers got me believing in the crime statistics, which makes me getting from the depot to Olly's Hotel a risky proposition. I decided it might be the better part of valor if I took a cab.The boy at the newsstand said there weren’t any cabs around there anymore because of the crime. I felt I was in a conundrum of someone else’s making, and there wasn’t anything I could do about, it except bite the proverbial bullet and start walking.

I’d slept on the street before, and I’ll tell you it isn’t fun. People are always bothering you by coughing at you, trying to take your cardboard mattress and your newspaper blanket, and then when you make a fuss they get mad at you, if you can believe that. I was never so happy to find a job where I could get a roof over my head and an unspoken for coin I could practice rolling across my knuckles. Being able to do something like that lifts your spirits when you need them lifted the most. I started walking and got no farther than the first block, where these two guys were roughing up this guy. I’d seen it all before so It didn’t bother me much, except for the lack of respect they were showing this guy. I know kicking someone when they’re down is easier than punching them, but it just seems so uncivilized. They didn’t appear to want to bother me none. They pretended like I was invisible, ignoring me, which was just fine with me. My fighting days I left in Tulsa and can see no reason to go back there. Age has a way of putting things like fighting in perspective. Not to mention Tulsa is one place I found being respectful was nearly impossible.

I don’t mean to cast aspersions on Tulsa Nebraska, but it’s a small town that’s been run by the same family for so long that even the mortician is part of what they call their “Independent collectivism.” I didn’t have the where with all to ask what it meant. I supposed it meant being like everyone else, but being yourself in the process, or looking like you were.

I managed the three blocks thinking about what I was going to say to Gus if he still worked there. No one else I met pretended they couldn’t see me, they treated everyone else like they couldn’t see them either. When I got closer to the hotel I could see they changed its name. It was now called “Bottoms Up,” which could have all kinds of selective meanings, so I just left well enough alone. There was a big guy standing next to the checkin counter that reminded me of Gus, but if it was Gus he had changed considerably in the last twenty years. He had the same tattoo of a sea horse over his right eye and an earring that looked like a cigar band, which I remember him telling me was to make him stand out “among the no accounts who frequented the place.” They didn’t have uniforms or a dress code for that matter, so I could see where mistakes could be made.

I walked up to him slowly not wanting to frighten him with remembrances. It’s happened to me a few times, it takes several days to get over it and being a hotel employee I assumed he just didn’t have that kind of time to spare. When I got within a few feet of him I smiled, he pointed toward the elevator like he’d read my mind, and I hadn’t even checked in yet. He didn’t seem to remember me, and I didn’t want to appear obstinate, so I headed for the elevator. I hadn’t been in one in a while, so me and this guy walking behind me get on the elevator, and I go to the top floor where all the rooms are numbered with fours, so you don’t forget which floor you are staying on I presumed. The guy following me got off on three.

I pushed the button for the lobby and started down. When I got to the main floor, the door opened and I was surprised to see the entire lobby was empty but for a few police who’d brought their dogs along. I know what a dog can do when left alone, so I understood them bringing them along. They didn’t pay me any attention, so I decided to take a stroll. It started to rain again. I could see the water running in the street ,so decided to walk around the halls until someone came back and I could find out what room I was in.

The hall had some furry looking paper on the walls, and a maroonIsh carpet that you could see had had better days, but then why change something that still has use in it. My dad would have liked staying here. He liked things to be used until they smelled funny or began to make people sick. The hall was lined with pictures I hadn’t remembered from before, but then twenty years is a long while, although it don’t seem like it at the time. I’m sure lots had happened since I was there last. I began to think I was back in Chicago; all the photos on the wall said they was made by the Chicago Tribune. I never believed much in newspaper except to wrap fish in or put on the floor if you were painting.

I walked around the square a few times waiting for the police to leave, but they seemed to be taking their time. I started taking an interest in the photos. One was of a beer raid where they were busting these kegs open onto the street. There were lots of people standing in the picture shaking their fist in the air like they were upset about the waste going in the sewer when it could have been put to better use. Another one was of a guy named Capone, a famous profiteer. He was going to prison for lying about how much money he made that he forgot to tell anyone about. Forgetfulness can cause you a lot of problems if you’re not careful.

The picture next to it looked familiar, or at least the people in the picture looked like I’d seen them before. They were standing around someone lying on the sidewalk mostly covered by a sheet. His shoes were sticking out and his hat was lying there next to his head. The guys face was kind of in the dark, and I couldn’t make it out for sure, but he looked mighty familiar. I put my face close to the picture to stop the glare from the bulbs on the wall shining on the glass and distorting the image. Once my eyes adjusted I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The guy on the ground with his feet sticking out looked a whole lot like…my twin brother Hershel. I hadn’t seen him in over twenty years, and I can’t say he looked much different in the picture than I remembered.

The cops had gone and just when I was about to go to the desk, I feel this hand on my shoulder. I turn, and it’s Hershel. It looked like Hershel anyway, but Hershel according to the Chicago Tribune had been shot by an off-duty policeman who thought he was someone called Getty. Not wanting to be impolite and disrespectful, I asked how he’d been doing? He looked at me like I was the last gumball in the jar. I was wet, tired, cold, and began to feel disrespected, and when I feel disrespected I am not myself. Hershel must have known how I can get having been a brother of mine, and he just smiles and points to the photo of the guy on the ground. I think maybe I should look being he’s gone to all the trouble of pointing it out. Then he says while I’m looking at the sheeted guy again, “you ain’t changed a bit. Oh, and dad says you got what was coming to you, being disrespectful of that guy you shot, when all he wanted was change for a dollar so he could get the bus home.”