In Motion:

In Motion:

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He stood there every single day, in rain or shine or sleet, and I usually saw him on my morning drive. Seven, it's a time when most people are getting ready for work or their commute. He seemed about seventy and always wore a hunting jacket and safety glasses. I figured he might be an out-of-work hunter, cynical and jaded. He'd walk down from the corner store holding his newly-bought cigarettes and just puff.

It takes a certain kind of madness, or a certain kind of oldness, to puff away on a cigarette like that. Not caring about the cancer, high systolic/diastolic, or the emphysema. Life was bad, just unfair, and you hit back at it any way you can. Your lungs are a good way too.

I saw him riding that bus to a prim, white-edged house, begonias and shit along the terrace. He'd stop and light another, and in the morning sun, he'd pace a few blocks away. He'd sigh and imagine himself going up. Knocking on the door. His daughter, Alice or Kathy, would come out, and they would share a hug. At first, she wouldn't believe it was him, cause she'd know as well as he did that he was too proud for that. He would hug her and tell her that he missed her and that he was sorry. Family was the only thing important in life and the only thing that gave it meaning. Music would swell in the background; dolphins would explode into rainbows. Little babies would give ovations out of third-story windows.

And every time he would fail himself and ride the bus back downtown.

So one day, I followed him.

I honestly don't know why I did but it was easy enough. I just waited, a little out of sight, and jumped on a few seconds after the last person. I sat in the rear, around where the back-left wheel was, and watched him. He didn't speak to anyone, and no one ever noticed him. He was like a ghost, or some kind of phantasm that only I could see.

He could have been a soldier. Ex-Special Forces, probably Tenth Mountain Alpine. He'd dragged his buddy through the Apennines, bleeding and cold and terrified. Thumb almost torn off from his M1 Garand. He'd have muttered the last, few prayers he still remembered and watched his friend slip away. It's okay, he'd have said, even when things were clearly, clearly not okay. Every day, he would visit the friend who'd been flown back home. The only other witness to the things that they'd seen and endured.

But that was silly, I realized, because he wasn't old enough for all that.

We've now passed every stop, and we're heading back the other way.

I stared at the back of his head and, after every stop, I felt worse. More uneasy. I wondered if he'd noticed me; he'd fought the commies and he wouldn't be stalked by some kid. He'd simply decided to stall me, ride this bus and wear me down. Kids nowadays were weak, soft, and pasty.

Honestly, he had been on the bus going to his grandchildren's house. Little Timmy or Tommy, who he would always hike up and put on his knee. They would smile and be so happy because their grandfather had arrived and they knew he always had the best candy. (Grandparents always do.)

He would smile into their big, wide, blue eyes and tell them about how some strange boy had followed him onto the bus. Probably trying to steal his identity, or his pension, or get him to sign some form. But he'd pulled it out, and the kid just left him alone, like he'd wanted all the time.
The children, and the man, would then laugh at the strange boy and his antics.

I noticed the man move, for the first time in hours. “Grand Lake”, was the announcement, “This stop is Grand Lake.”

The man stood and pressed the button for his stop.

People are funny. We like to think that we're going somewhere, even when we're not. It's what keeps us whole, and human. If we stagnate just enough, we'll even find reasons to pretend we're going somewhere. Just for the illusion of motion.

Even spectators like me, we like to imagine people going places. If they're going somewhere, then surely, surely, surely I could go somewhere too.

I got off on the same stop I'd gotten on hours previously. Again, just a few steps behind the old man. He walks slowly and unhurriedly; I quickly catch up.

He doesn't seem to recognize me, but when he looks down, our eyes meet. The used, crumpled cigarette box comes out of his pocket and he offers it to me. I take one, and puff on it just like he does. I ask him what his name is.

“Daniel,” the old man says.

“Daniel,” I repeat, inhaling the acrid smoke. “Would you like to have dinner at my house tonight?”-

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Word Count = 848