He sat down visibly in the front of the bus. The seats reserved for the handicap, the elderly, the woman, the children and the punk kids too scared or to smart to get pocket check obscurely in the rear of the bus. This is a “no man’s land” traditionally in an urban setting such as that of the city of angels. But there he is fighting sleep that creeps through the back of his spine and takes control of his whole nervous system. The swift movements of a driver much too concerned with keeping a schedule send his jello like body on a roller coaster simulative ride. Back and forth his body goes as if the gentleman has not an ounce of strength to hold himself in place. Every time the bus comes to a stop, he is quick to recompose himself. Back straight, one leg crossed over the other, wipes his eyes, and smiles at a now curious audience.
I am sitting in the middle of the bus (I am no punk, but am not stupid to sit in the back neither) with a great panoramic view of this gentleman. Like everybody in the audience, I too begin to question, to impose value, to formulate a story on what led this person to this exact place and time in history. First thing I conclude, he is elderly….probably in his early sixties. He has too many gray hairs and a balding spot in the back of his head. However, his hygiene is in too descent of a state to believe the man is homeless. Or did he recently become homeless? He has a wallet sitting in front of him with a bundle of receipts scattered on the seat next to him. Most of them are Chase banking receipts, so there goes the idea that he is homeless right? He is riding the six am bus, and is African-American so he might be a graveyard security guard. That must be it. I have determined his job and the reason why he is sleepy. Just as I am almost sure of this, I begin to realize that every so often he tries to put the stack of receipts in the wallet he struggles with the child like motor skill and drops some on the floor and does not even realize it. This person is not capable of holding a job! So than I begin to wander, what physical or mental condition can this man have? I seek a lifeline from the audience who is an active part of the investigation. Yes…indeed, it is a team effort, it has been the moment every passenger stepped foot in that morning bus.
At this point everybody is leaning towards mental health and gifting a straight jacket through their gift of vision. A female passenger that sits two seats down is definitely thinking straightjacket as the gentleman almost looses his balance on a sharp turn and nearly falls on the lady who has a disgusted face at this point. She too is African-American, so I wander…why doesn’t she help her own kind? But than I remember, these “special people” have no race. That is why they sit on “no man’s land” in the first place right? Because they don’t know any better. The media, organizations, education, and our society tell us that there are professionals out there to treat such individuals. The system will take care of them. If not, it should be their families’ responsibilities to fend for them right?
But what of the individuals that slip that cracks and fall in to “no man’s land” consciously or unconsciously? I realized that the man futilely fought his battle with sleep or the task of putting his wallet together. A man’s wallet represents manhood, power, wealth, and even social position. I might have walked out of that bus with my wallet in my pocket, but my humbleness was shattered as I realized it never clicked to simply get on my knees and help another human being. As I pulled the cord to signal my stop, I realized I formulated a whole story in my head from what I perceived to be a panoramic view of the main character when in reality I was at hindsight.
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