Brothers On The 16 Bus

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A man a little older than I, long-haired, maybe an aging hippie or vet, studies his paperback as we bump along the wintry street. He has the stringy look of an itinerant monk, someone who's spent his life without much worldly power, trying to stay alive and do good, or at least not do harm. When he moves to assist with a wheelchair being lifted on board at a stop, the driver, normally almost gratingly cheerful, snaps at him, "You leave that alone! I get paid for doing this!" The graybeard backs warily into his seat. Soon he's in his book again, though remaining alert.

A large shaven-headed person across the aisle makes a point of talking to the other passengers. His demeanor is rough, his complexion raw. He's somewhere between forty and fifty. He compliments a young white man wearing an African pillbox hat, "Nice hat," but the man passes silent down his stony tunnel. The big man greets me as he steps down. I reply, "Take it easy." Through the frosted window I watch him slowly tug his jacket hood over his pale, scraped head. He wears no gloves—none left behind on his empty seat—but shuffles along the salted city sidewalk, hands hanging red at his sides. Oh who are they, and where are they going, these brothers, men "divine as myself" . . .