Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Thirty-eight

After leaving Andy's, I walked north on Clark Street—just to walk. It wasn't too cold, and naturally, because it was December, it wasn't too warm. But at that point, weather didn't matter. Liz had left without saying a word, and I followed not too far behind. I told Andy I was leaving, and he said, "That ain't such a bad idea."

So I left wondering if he meant it wasn't such a bad idea for me to leave, or that he agreed it was a good idea to leave, and he, in fact, wasn't far behind me.

Once I was outside, walking north on Clark, I stopped obsessing about what Andy said, and started obsessing about what Liz said. Her words kept resonating in my mind—the words that went, "And unfortunately for you, there's nothing you can do about it either."

It was such an odd statement, but at the same time, a very true statement. And it wasn't like, if I could do anything about her "loving" me, or me being "her priority," I would anyway ... That would be like changing things—or playing God. That's just not something I would feel comfortable doing—playing God. And if you asked people, I'm sure, if they really thought about it, thought deep and hard, no one would really want to play God. It's simply too much responsibility. Oh, sure, there are those who like control, but I think, ultimately, we need to take a back seat, or surrender to the feeling of a supreme source of power or control.

So, in summary, that Liz feels one way or the other is certainly her prerogative, and I honor that. That doesn't mean I necessarily agree with it, but I honor it.

With all these lofty thoughts, weak and vulnerable feelings slashing about, I decided to take the bus home. Besides, I was getting colder, I didn't have money for a cab, and I was too far away from the train at this point. So, with a light snow flurry, a chill in my soul, and an Asian man speaking to his left hand in what sounded like German, I waited for the 52 Clark.

I'm not sure what the lump in my throat and the tears in my eyes had to do with, but I think observing the Asian man and his German left hand made me understand my loneliness—or at least made me aware of it. I'm not sure I understand anything anymore.

"The bus here! The bus here!" said the Asian man. I nodded and gave him an empathetic smile. Letting him know I'm with him, empathizing with his plight as though it were my own.

"What you look at, pretty boy?" he said with an extremely sour face.

"I'm just happy the bus is here. Thank you for letting me know," I said with another smile.

"Fuck you, buddy." And with that he moved into position to board the bus.

Once on the bus, I was surprised to see how many people, first of all, take the bus, but second of all, take the bus at 11:30 at night. There were about five people standing and about three seats available. After offering a seat toward the front of the bus to a woman who certainly didn't look like she belonged on the bus, sporting a long mink, rabbit earmuffs, a beautiful nose job, and six bags of Christmas gifts, I sat down on one of the seats left available.

The bus was filled with characters that made up life. What I mean is these people were real life. These people were what the bus system and public transportation was for. This was the public in public transportation. I guess I've always taken it for granted, or have always had another way to get somewhere, but the majority of the people who live in this city rely on the bus.

I started with the bus driver, who was a black man with a butt three times as large as the seat he sat on and as friendly as could be. I wondered how many years he'd been driving the bus, wanted to ask him if it was boring, what kind of a test he had to take to become a bus driver, how he got the job, whether there had been an ad in the paper, or if he knew someone at City Hall who told him about the job. Did he have a family? And if so, what did his kids think of him being a bus driver. Did they think it's pretty cool? And lastly, how did the bus driver get to work and back? Did he take a bus, or drive a car?

Sitting behind the bus driver were more of those characters who make up life. The black couple with the newborn, which I felt sorry for, for having to cart around a baby on the bus. The funny thing is they looked too proud to feel sorry for themselves. Next to the couple with the baby was an old white man in his late sixties, complete with a very worn Cubs baseball cap over his scattered white hair. Headphones that emitted some sort of classical music at high volume were stretched over the ball cap, which lead to the Walkman hidden under his jacket. He stared out the window at a woman in the passenger seat of a car signing to the driver while they were at a stop sign.

I watched as a couple in their fifties, dressed in fine thrift store threads, sat together facing the front of the bus. The woman sat next to the window until the man asked for a seat change. She gave up the window seat and granted his request. Because she didn't know he preferred the window seat, I wondered if this was their first date.

Another couple—younger, hipper, covered with tattoos—sat directly in front of me. They sat silently, looked forward, and held hands. I wondered how they met. What attracted them to each other What they looked like when they made love. What it was like for them. Were they tender with each other, or like animals, just doing it hard and fast, and then going to sleep.

Other people sat on the bus rather quietly—some reading, one doing a crossword puzzle. It's funny how everyone reads something different. One man inspected his fedora, and another with a bad complexion just sat and stared, with his massive Popeye arms crossed, at the man with the fedora.

My observation was broken by the deep-throated hack of a phlegm-filled woman to the left of me, who was putting on lipstick and eye shadow. Maybe she was lonely and just wanted to get my attention, or maybe she wanted to talk or something, because she got both my attention and conversation.

"Bye, Abigail." A tall black man with a patch over one eye and a Member's Only jacket on over a Notre Dame sweatshirt said to the phlegm-filled woman.

"See you, Carl," the woman said as she caught my eye.

It was as though she had to justify knowing this tall black man to me.

"Oh, he's a friend of my daughter's," she said with a hint of embarrassment.

"That's nice." I nodded and smiled.

She probably didn't think what she said came out right, so she continued. "Well, he's really a friend of my daughter and her husband."

Yeah, I thought, God forbid your daughter be friends with a tall black man who wears a patch over one eye.

"He's a very nice man," she whispered to me as we passed Alberto Salon, which was one of those low-cost, hair cutting training centers for people who can't afford SuperCuts. "That's a great place to get your hair cut. I go all the time. And it's a good deal too. Use to go to this other place, but once I had a cut at Alberto's, I've never gone anywhere else ... Not only is it inexpensive, five dollars, but if you're not satisfied, you can go back and they'll make it right with you ... They really will ... I heard of a lady who got a permanent, wasn't satisfied, and they made it right. I'm not sure of the particulars, but it wasn't like they tried to straighten it or anything, but they did something for her ..."

"Really, that's very interesting. I'll have to keep it in mind the next time I need a cut."

"Sure, the place is very popular. As a matter of fact, Alberto has opened another establishment over behind the Jewel on Clybourn."

By the time we were somewhat near where I had to depart, most people had emptied off the bus, so I found myself with those few people, as well as the Asian man with the German hand. I finally got off the bus three blocks from my house and was given a fond farewell through the window by the Asian man and the middle finger of his German hand.

The fresh air did nothing but bring back the thought of Liz and me sitting across from each other, and those words ... "And unfortunately for you, there's nothing you can do about it either." What would happen if I just gave in to Liz? Would it be that bad? Maybe my life would be easier if I said to Liz, "Let's do it. Let's just be one. You and me, dancin' through life ..."

My body shook involuntarily, and I figured it was one of three things: a reaction to the thought of a Liz commitment, a cold wind passing through my body, or Ben hitting me upside the head trying to snap me out of this everlasting befuddlement.