8: perfect BLOG stranger

“Goin’ on a trip?”
My blog assignment started out backwards: I didn’t approach the stranger, the stranger approached me.
“Yep.” I lied.
I stared down at the red, roll-a-way suitcase in between my feet and was confident that my lie was planted in solid ground. I had just found an open seat, on the red Max line, with an additional open seat on either side meant to keep my personal space bubble from popping. Unfortunately, this prime seat lacked the still added bonus of facing open seats—surrounded by buffers and the inability of making small talk with fellow public transpiration riders. I lied because it was quicker than telling the truth—as to why I had my Samsonite carry-on. Small talk never interested me much. Whose business was it anyways?
Nonetheless, I had felt this man’s gaze on me since I sat down, immediately making me wish I opted for the handicapped zone where I ran the risk of looking socially insensitive, or having to move once someone worthy of this section got on my Max car, or heaven forbid making it appear as if I had some [hidden] disability. It took him about the time of seven awkward stops to wear down my darting eyes, where upon I finally met his yellowed ogle. Yes, let’s say I’m going on a trip.
“Where to?” He didn’t bother with the invitation of my raised head this time; I guess we were already past those formalities. A fast mover, this one was.
“Ahh, home—to Indiana,” I spoke as proxy for the suitcase. I took a better look at my single serving friend of the next fifteen minutes or so. He had me, and our conversation was going to happen if I liked it or not, so I might as well make the most of it.
Taking this second look at the skin covered skeleton across my way, I began to relax in the sincerity of his halfcocked smile and timekeeping head bobs.
“Indiana? Boy, now there’s some place I haven’t seen yet. What you doin’ in Oregon?”
Wait, who’s trying to get the life story of who here? I realized I had better turn this chat around if I was to have a blog this week.
“I go to school at Pacific, in Forest Grove. Have you ever been to the Midwest?”
Arnold, I read his name off his embroidered baby blue work shirt, uncrossed his legs and repositioned his stretched out elbows from across the tops of his empty neighboring seat on his now widely spread apart knees. Leaning closer to me, he started in with a chapter of his life story. He might as well write my assignment for me, I couldn’t help but smile at my luck. Arnold took my now cheery disposition and ran with it: hook, line, and sinker.
“I got to Colorado with my two girls about three years ago.” I almost opened a newspaper left within reach after hearing Arnold’s consideration that Colorado was the Midwest, but I figured I was in this far, why start all over later?
“Oh, cool. What’d you do there?”
“Just a family vacation. My wife, she don’t get too many vacation days so we make the most of what we got.” I pretended to be texting so I could shorthand his answers in my phone. To make sure he knew I was still interested in him and not my imaginary friend on the other end of my texts, I shot him with more questions. I felt kind of bad hearing in his hesitation since he wasn’t done with his first thought.
“Oh yeah? What does your wife do?”
Arnold straightened his back with pride and illustrated his wife of 23 years working as a 9-1-1 operator. He remembered with affection how, when they were first married, she typed along with the dialog on the TV shows to practice taking down callers’ exchanges—having to type word for word what these panicked callers had to say/scream/whisper/cry.
Another fellow Max rider who had found her way into our conversation in between one of the stops that had occurred since offered her insight on the salary of these 9-1-1 operators.
Arnold looked down for the first time that I knew of and shook his head, “yes sir, she make good money, but it take two with kids in this economy. I got a sick one in bed right now. Been sick for three days, poor baby.”
“Oh no, what’s he got?” the second stranger asked. I was out of the conversation, the outsider taking notes on the two new main characters.
“I got two baby girls.” Arnold corrected the other stranger’s last question before correcting himself, “Well, they ain’t babies no more, but they’ll always be to their daddy. She’s got the flu, though.” And in perfect timing, he pointed to some corner store as the Max pulled to a stop, “On my way to get her some medicine right now.” He said a one word farewell to the other stranger and granted me the same acknowledgment accompanied with the same sincere half smile and head bob that began our conversation.
I turned to capture a final look at my subject as he passed behind me outside the Max car. I caught him staring at me, eyes completely fixed on me since before I knew it, as he walked past. We met gazes and he showed me his pink palm accented with white cracks against his black skin. Arnold was a perfect stranger for what I needed for my blog, and as I opened up to the possibility of sharing with complete strangers as our conversation progressed, I made a complete circle to being freaked out once again with this intensity dedicated to me after he left the Max.