Old-Timey

It was Friday night and the bus heading downtown would be packed. Capacity was one-hundred and four riders, and every one of us got a good look. I was in a line on the sidewalk in the cold wondering why this was taking so long. I was one step up when some idiot didn’t have their bus pass ready. I was two steps up as that sour-scented man fumbled for enough change. When I soldiered onto the crowded bus not quite consciously sliding my bus pass against the scanner is when I noticed her. A stunner of a woman before me. Her dress was this old-timey, 19th century Little House on the Prairie look, speckled with powdered greens and blues, complete with bonnet. My eyes traveled to her face, and my grimace must have been noticeable.

Disfigurement. One half of her old, sandpapered face was caved in. It was a long, drawn out moment that I could only wonder by what means.

But as I filed along to the back of the crowded bus, I noticed an unexpected feeling take hold. I found a smile sauntering across my lips.

“You see that?” I asked my roommate.

She looked up from her cell phone. “See what?”

“Nevermind.”

That costume was such a queer sight, and it had really affected me. Instead of the usual pity, the sympathy and injustice, I was grinning over that anachronistic flair and the curiosity of the whole encounter. That costume just screamed contentment. And self-confidence. And oddity.

I felt good. Something had happened. I still notice when it does.

Chris

Though we never talked, I had been curious about Chris for quite a while. He’s a mousy young college student with a whispy moustache that it seems only certain Asians can accidentally grow. I used to see him once a week in the evening for drawing class, and sometimes I’d wonder if I had what he did, would it make me better at drawing?

Chris can’t hear or speak.

I heard once that those who are deaf from birth are the mute ones because they never heard what vocalization sounds like. Well Chris never spoke except through signs to his interpreters, two women who dutifully came to class and switched off every twenty minutes.

But if he ever wanted to interact with any of his classmates he’d never be able to speak directly to them. One of the women would have to do the talking, and the other person would have to make a mindful effort to maintain eye contact with Chris. Naturally people would feel they were chatting with the interpreter instead. It was awkward. Anytime he wanted to talk, this is what Chris went through.

If your ‘words’ go through someone else, then can you still enjoy that simple pleasure of conversation? One day at the college bookstore I found out.

Instead of ‘hello’ he gave me a quick glance of recognition and engagement, an over-before-you-know-it dilation of the eyes and opening of the mouth, and though I didn’t mean to, I automatically exchanged that same glance. It reminded me how much of communication is nonverbal and subconscious.

He then started scowling, and I couldn’t be sure but figured it was because of the long line to get textbooks. I realized I couldn’t give a quick “hey, how you doing?” If we were going to “talk” it would take some investment and effort. I pulled some post-its out of my back pocket and we dialogued.

What is your name?

My name is Christian, but you call me Chris.

Me, Tony.

Nice to meet you. I know you familiar in Bcc LoL.

I gave him a smile and looked around wondering what to “say”. He gestured to his phone and started punching out a text message. It took him some time, and as he punched in the text he kept waving his finger in the air as if to say, “wait, wait, it’s coming!” I imagine this was an attempt to keep my attention. It was already his.

Do you know how much for books?

I looked at his class list and replied on a new post-it.

I want to know too, but different class.

Maybe these books? Two names, same class.

He flips my paper over and responds.

Its different. I show you exactly.

Technology has been a wonder for the disabled. With his cell phone he showed me the book he needed on Amazon, but I couldn’t find it in the bookstore catalogue. I wrote back.

That register has a shorter line,

you can ask questions.

but I don’t have money tomorrow anyways.

Hmmm... Well, doesn’t seem like there’s much either of us can do. He furtively glanced about, plotting his next move. I was already down to my last post-it and figured about this time would be a gracious exit. How to do it?

It was a bit overkill. With brows raised so high you could tell my eyes were spheres I cocked my head back like I was going to swing it right into the conversation. My nostrils flared. My right palm rotated upwards, the fingers dangled, the lips puckered to prime him for what was coming. I leaned into his field of vision, and then...

Well, I said it out loud.

“I’m going to get out of here...”

He nodded.

He smiled.

Yeah, we talked.