Fallen

The man beside me is a raging alcoholic, a failed businessman who returns home each night to his wife of twenty years, reaking of stale liquor and cigarette smoke. He feels that he is not good enough for her, but he has no where else to go. And so he returns, barely conscious, letting her knowing hands tend to his needs...every morning awakening in bed beside her, ashamed of his actions the previous night, and unwilling to admit them to her. She lives her days in the quiet agony of those close to the downward spiral of a bottle. It is the silent spin that none of their friends will notice until like the dead leaves that they are, they finally just blow away...tossed and scattered down the road.

There is the lady across the aisle, the one with the grocery bags and the small child. She hit her child a few minutes ago, because he embarassed her in public. With his childlike innocence, he approached the bank teller and asked for money “because Mommy doesn't have any.” She flushed a dark red, the color of sunburnt bricks and ushered him away from the man after dropping off her latest too-small paycheck. Then, entering the restroom, she slapped him and told him not to say things like that. Her heart softened when he began to cry, but she kept her features set as she told him the harsh realities of being self-reliant.

Towards the back there is another child, this one clothed as an adult. She was kicked out of her home at an early age by her father after he discovered she was pregnant. Now she is forced to sell herself on the street to pay for the abortion for a baby she can't afford to keep. She just barely makes ends meet. She figures that if tomorrow doesn't pan out, it won't be the first time she's slept on the streets, and it certainly won't be the last. She misses her family, but is unable to return there because of her pride. The same pride that keeps her father from calling her, even though he spent years and thousands of dollars locating her. By the time he actually does call her, it will be too late and the shattered shell that remains of who she is will be unsalvageable.

The driver himself is an ex-con, a petty thief who made a stupid mistake one day and ended up with ten years. He used to have a wife and three kids, but they don't even write anymore, and he has orders from the American Government not to come within a ten-mile radius of them. He has weekly check-ups with his PO, who likes to blow smoke in his face and watch his eyes water. And although he's sworn that this time he's coming clean, never to stray from the straight and narrow ever again, he is finding it harder and harder to stick with his vow. The bills are piling up, and although he's gone in for interviews and such, no one wants to hire someone with “Armed Robbery,” and “Attempted Manslaughter” on their record. If only he had left the gun at home that day...

So many stories here, all locked deep within these people's hearts. Were I a poet, I could free these parables of life from their fragile bonds of flesh and blood. But I am no poet, now merely an observer of humanity. I am here to watch, to wait, and to listen, ah yes, to listen. I am everywhere, hearing everything, saying nothing...and yet in that, I say everything. I am a hint of that which is almost seen within the depths of another's eyes. I am, as they say in the movies, not quite human. But then, who is truly human, and who decides the basis for humanity? If being human involves having feelings and wishes...then yes, I am as human as the next. If it involves having faults, such as acts of betrayal and vengeance to those who love you? Yes, once again, I am all too human. I am even human in the physical sense...my genetic legacy belies that which I remember. I recall the love and the glory. I recall my lust for more. And yet here I sit, briefcase on lap, transfer ticket clenched in a sweaty hand with broken nails, full of knowledge I cannot possibly explain. Who I am depends on who you ask. Even I am not sure on that score.

So many tales, all different, and yet all the same. Every story ends the same, no matter the cast, nor the situation. It is a time-worn truth that no one may escape inevitability. But I think too much about that which cannot be changed. It is not my place to judge, lest I be judged. And my judgement would be far harsher than that of anyone here.

The bus slows, then stops with a lurch. Steadying himself, the fallen one rises and exits the bus. He has about a block to walk before he gets home, but it'll give him time to think.