As I was approaching the bus stop—fumbling money to pay for my fare—I could see the outline of someone sitting inside of it and the closer I got, the better I could smell the scent of alcohol wafting from his jacket. I looked at him for a moment as I leaned against the side wall that divided the two of us. He slightly resembled a bent paperclip. He was thin, frail, wrinkly, and short, and was an oddly intimidating presence. I stayed for a few seconds until I heard him speak, curling his head around the wall to do so.
“You can sit down man—if you want to,” he said.
“Excuse me?” I replied.
"I said, you can sit down man,” he repeated.
Not wanting to be impolite, I sat down. He was wearing a ripped jean jacket over a Yankees sweatshirt and a Red Sox winter hat. His eyelids kept creeping over his pupils like window shades that would not close all the way as he stared at me, trying to say something but unable to find his voice. Finally, he said, “I ain’t a rapist or anything.” I laughed a little at his comment. He repeated to himself, “I ain’t a rapist.”
“Good,” I said. He looked away. I thought he may have forgotten that I was there until he turned back to me and said, “Are you a rapist?”
“No, I’m not a rapist,” I said.
“Good, good, then we should be able to sit next to each other,” said the man. “Man, it’s fuckin cold out. Where’s dat goddamn bus?!”
“Yeah, it’s getting cold,” I said.
“I’m goin all da way up to Pittsfield.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m heading over to Housatonic. That’s where I live.”
“Oh, ah, oh, Housatonic. Yeah, I grew up over in Housatonic,” he said.
At this moment, two elderly women walked by and he greeted them, but they did not respond. They only muttered to each other, probably some degrading comments about him. After they passed he turned back to me.
“Yeah, I grew up down there in Housatonic. I grew up with Bobby Bonnex.”
“Who?”
“Bobby Bonnex. He shot him—took a—one day—you know, just blew his own brains out. Just took a pistol, and said ‘Enough!’ and blew his own brains out,” said the man.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” I said.
“Just some things you can’t do nothin about,” he said. “But I would never go like that. I would never blow my own brains out. Might get—might—I mean—somebody else might blow my brains out, but I would never blow my own brains out. Never.”
"Why?” I said, immediately not knowing why I asked. He looked at me, fumbling for an answer in his fuzzy head, and finally said, looking down at his feet.
“Because I polish my boots! E’ery day I polish em. Because I like em ta be clean man. I jes ain’t gon walk around in some dirty ass boots! E’ry day I wash em, I wax em, I shine em, and I polish em!” He shouted.
“I see,” I said.
“And that’s why I can’t jes go n’ blow my own brains out! Because I polish my boots!” he shouted, “and I—” at this moment he stopped talking and stood up from the bench, staring out at an oncoming Mack Truck. “Aw yeah, that’s da bus right there,” he said, pointing.
I looked at the Mack truck and said, “No man, I think that’s just—”
“Nah, yeah,” he said, waving down the Mack truck. “Yeah, that’s da bus—oh, no it ain’t. Never mind. So anyway, I was tellin you about Bobby. You know, I wasn’t mad about him goin out like dat. I unnastand and e’rything. But I was upset. I was like ‘come on man,’ but I unnastand, but I just can’t go out like dat,” and then looking at his feet, he said, “look at em shinin man!”
I nodded my head in agreement.
He turned to me and said, “I spent all my money. All I got is seven dollars left, and I gotta spend five goin ta Pittsfield, but I got nothin else.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, again, regretting my question.
“I lost 200 dollars on the Super Bowl last night.”
The bus approached with the sound of its tires on the wet pavement audible with a hiss. When we got on the bus, he felt around in all of his pockets and could not find his money. “Jes one second,” he said to the bus driver. He ran back to the bus stop and looked around on the ground and around the bench. I did not have enough money to pay for his fare. Getting back on the bus, he tried to plea with the bus driver, who turned him down. Hysterically, he turned all of his pockets inside out and looked at me with reaching eyes. I looked at him the same way and I continued to watch him through the rain drops on the window as the bus rolled toward his hometown and my hometown, where Bobby Bonnex blew his own brains out.
“You can sit down man—if you want to,” he said.
“Excuse me?” I replied.
"I said, you can sit down man,” he repeated.
Not wanting to be impolite, I sat down. He was wearing a ripped jean jacket over a Yankees sweatshirt and a Red Sox winter hat. His eyelids kept creeping over his pupils like window shades that would not close all the way as he stared at me, trying to say something but unable to find his voice. Finally, he said, “I ain’t a rapist or anything.” I laughed a little at his comment. He repeated to himself, “I ain’t a rapist.”
“Good,” I said. He looked away. I thought he may have forgotten that I was there until he turned back to me and said, “Are you a rapist?”
“No, I’m not a rapist,” I said.
“Good, good, then we should be able to sit next to each other,” said the man. “Man, it’s fuckin cold out. Where’s dat goddamn bus?!”
“Yeah, it’s getting cold,” I said.
“I’m goin all da way up to Pittsfield.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m heading over to Housatonic. That’s where I live.”
“Oh, ah, oh, Housatonic. Yeah, I grew up over in Housatonic,” he said.
At this moment, two elderly women walked by and he greeted them, but they did not respond. They only muttered to each other, probably some degrading comments about him. After they passed he turned back to me.
“Yeah, I grew up down there in Housatonic. I grew up with Bobby Bonnex.”
“Who?”
“Bobby Bonnex. He shot him—took a—one day—you know, just blew his own brains out. Just took a pistol, and said ‘Enough!’ and blew his own brains out,” said the man.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” I said.
“Just some things you can’t do nothin about,” he said. “But I would never go like that. I would never blow my own brains out. Might get—might—I mean—somebody else might blow my brains out, but I would never blow my own brains out. Never.”
"Why?” I said, immediately not knowing why I asked. He looked at me, fumbling for an answer in his fuzzy head, and finally said, looking down at his feet.
“Because I polish my boots! E’ery day I polish em. Because I like em ta be clean man. I jes ain’t gon walk around in some dirty ass boots! E’ry day I wash em, I wax em, I shine em, and I polish em!” He shouted.
“I see,” I said.
“And that’s why I can’t jes go n’ blow my own brains out! Because I polish my boots!” he shouted, “and I—” at this moment he stopped talking and stood up from the bench, staring out at an oncoming Mack Truck. “Aw yeah, that’s da bus right there,” he said, pointing.
I looked at the Mack truck and said, “No man, I think that’s just—”
“Nah, yeah,” he said, waving down the Mack truck. “Yeah, that’s da bus—oh, no it ain’t. Never mind. So anyway, I was tellin you about Bobby. You know, I wasn’t mad about him goin out like dat. I unnastand and e’rything. But I was upset. I was like ‘come on man,’ but I unnastand, but I just can’t go out like dat,” and then looking at his feet, he said, “look at em shinin man!”
I nodded my head in agreement.
He turned to me and said, “I spent all my money. All I got is seven dollars left, and I gotta spend five goin ta Pittsfield, but I got nothin else.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, again, regretting my question.
“I lost 200 dollars on the Super Bowl last night.”
The bus approached with the sound of its tires on the wet pavement audible with a hiss. When we got on the bus, he felt around in all of his pockets and could not find his money. “Jes one second,” he said to the bus driver. He ran back to the bus stop and looked around on the ground and around the bench. I did not have enough money to pay for his fare. Getting back on the bus, he tried to plea with the bus driver, who turned him down. Hysterically, he turned all of his pockets inside out and looked at me with reaching eyes. I looked at him the same way and I continued to watch him through the rain drops on the window as the bus rolled toward his hometown and my hometown, where Bobby Bonnex blew his own brains out.
