Waiting

by Brian Schulz
 
Macomber was irritated.  He looked impatiently up the road for the bus, then at his watch. Ten past three. His back was tight, and his legs throbbed with the heavy ache they got whenever he stood still on them, waiting. And he’d been waiting for fifteen minutes. That was long enough.
 
If he had noticed the old man sitting on the bench, Macomber would have kept standing. But now he was seated on the splintered slats, his back square and his feet planted, beside the old man. He couldn’t get back up because the old man would know why. And, besides, his legs did hurt. He scooched, a little, toward the edge of the bench, and turned away from the old man, fixing his gaze on a sidewalk crack. He looked at his watch. Twelve past three.
 
The old man was crusty and weathered, but in a gentle sort of way, the way Macomber imagined men from Vermont grew old. His clothes were soiled. His raincoat was dull, tan, grease-spotted, and too small in the sleeves, and he wore a crumpled, thin-brimmed hat pulled down low over his ears. The hat looked like the fishing hat Macomber’s father used to wear but without the plastic license pinned cock-eyed in the front. Macomber had not taken to fishing; it was one of his father’s pastimes he’d not been able to fathom and, with time, had come to view with contempt. It had galled him that his father could so carelessly spend his time. It had been the same with his garden, though when he’d started to grow vegetables, Macomber could at least see a purpose. His father never kept the fish he caught.
 
Why do old people’s clothes never fit? Macomber wondered.
 
Macomber fidgeted; he uncrossed his left leg, then crossed his right leg. He straightened the crease of his pants. He glanced up the road. He looked at his watch. He turned back toward the old man. His face was dark. Deep lines creased his forehead and drew down from the corners of his closed eyes, rounding into a fold by his lips. A fringe of thin, white hair fell out from around his hat and sprouted in tufts from his ears. He had a broad, strong nose that seemed to be from another face.
 
Macomber thought: Will I look like that?
 
The old man was still and breathed slowly, deliberately. His face held a tender, unforced smile that seemed as fixed a feature as the wrinkles age had left behind. His father’s had been that kind of smile. It was disarming and soothing. Macomber’s rare girlfriends took note of his father’s smile, but Macomber had never been able to muster more than a grimace. The smile was all that remained of his father at the end, when the cancer took him.
 
The old man slowly opened his eyes, blinking in the soft sunlight. He turned to Macomber, meeting his wan, green eyes for just an instant, then nodded slightly. Macomber was discomfited, unsure whether the old man’s nod connoted a scold or small embrace. He looked at his watch.  Twenty-one past three.

“How long have you been here?” Macomber spoke to the old man.
 
“What time is it?” the old man answered.
 
“Three twenty-one, two. Three twenty two.”
 
“Oh, since I got here.” The old man smiled. “It’s warm today. Eh?”
 
Macomber hadn’t noticed. He’d been distracted by the small gusts of spring breeze that tousled his scrupulously arranged, thinning red hair. He should have worn his hat. But the old man was right; the day was pleasant, and for a brief moment Macomber felt at ease, content to sit with the old man, idling in the sun.
 
The bus drew up and stopped in front of the bench. With a hiss, the door opened. Macomber stood quickly and smoothed his coat. He peered into the bus. Full. How could he fit? Macomber started to squeeze onto the platform of the first step, hesitated, then turned to the old man.
 
“Well, come on,” Macomber beckoned the old man. "Let’s go.” 

The old man’s gray eyes scanned the filmy bus windows and the tired, pressed faces behind them.  He shook his head slowly, smiling.  “Nope. Thanks. Go on.”
 
“Next bus isn’t till four.” Macomber looked at his watch, then stepped down and offered his hand to the old man.

The old man stuck out his hand. It was a big hand, liver-spotted, fingers gnarled. He took Macomber’s hand and grasped it firmly between both of his. “Last one was at two. It’s a nice day. Go on now, son.”
 
Macomber climbed back up onto the step, gripped the metal rail, and pulled his coat bottom in from the door. He watched as black diesel-dust settled around the old man. The old man’s serene smile shone through the cloud like his father’s had in the morning lake-mists, a fishing pole cradled in his arm. The old man waved a small wave. 

Macomber pulled up his sleeve to check the time. His watch was gone.