The Conversation
Seth Allen

 

Not long ago, my car suffered a tremendous blow. After 197,432 miles, my clutch decided to stop working. Oh, and my exhaust system was in need of repair. I think there may be a few others... It burned oil. It had a punched-in steering wheel from a long-ago day of frustration. The seats were stained with residue from fishing, beach going, and general disregard. The car was a mess and I needed to act fast. The imminent demise of my car was particularly distressing, because I commute to work about 60 miles to Newton, a town bordering the outskirts of Boston. The cost of repair far exceeded the value of the car and I needed to develop a plan that was affordable and expedient. I had the car for ten years, it lasted me through my first job and graduate school. It was time to say goodbye to my dear old Mazda, so I bit the bullet and junked it. I am proud to say that I am no longer a part of the traffic problem. I decided to desert my car commuting comrades and my role as one of the many one-head occupied automobiles clogging the life-flowing arteries of the city. I am now a public transportation user.

I take the train into Boston and catch a bus to Newton. I then reverse the route upon the completion of my workday. Most days are pretty normal. By normal, I mean that I get on the train, read a book, and get off the train. The same routine applies to the bus ride. The entire trip averages about an hour and fifteen minutes each way. During this time, I rarely talk to anyone. In fact, I am always amazed when two strangers meet and begin talking to one another. That this is a daily occurrence speaks volumes about humankind. In a way, it is inspirational. Different people from different cultures and places come together and are able to meet on common ground and forge a conversation.

I tell you this because I had a moment. It was one of those moments where you are fortunate enough to experience something that many find enigmatic. On this day, I saw the birth of a conversation between two strangers.

I left work and took my normal fifteen-minute jaunt to the bus stop. I walk to Newton Corner, a stop that offers express service to Boston. There are several buses that offer this service and I only know a few of the bus numbers that denote express service. Generally, I rely on the bus driver to yell, "Express to Boston!" It is the only sure-fire method that does not require memorization. Five minutes passed and, sure enough, a bus driver informed me that my bus had arrived. As normal, I entered the bus, ran my card through the change collector, and took a seat. Other passengers entered, and soon we were on our way.

While rounding the corner to get on the MassPike, I heard a voice. It was a deep, heavily accented, New Yawk of a voice. It was the type of voice that screamed ignorance. It was a mob-guy, Bowery boy kind of talk with a dullness that cried out, �This man is a goon!� I don't mean to be rude, unrefined accents can be charming, especially when doling out malapropisms like Judy Holliday in Born Yesterday. However, that example continues to propagate the aforementioned vision of ignorance.

He continued to speak and irritate me with each word he spoke. Unable to control my curiosity, I turned to look from where the voice originated.

I looked over my right shoulder and there he was. A man very similar to me in age (30-35) and race (Caucasian, Euro-American, you pick the terminology). He was stocky, but not fat. He wasn't tall and he wasn't short. He had a full head of short-cropped hair and a large eyebrow, that's right, eyebrow. His deep, brown eyes appeared to be dots next to a large, bulbous nose. What I found most disturbing, was his lack of a forehead. He seemed to have about an inch between his eyebrow and hairline. If bald men have a receding hairline, he had the opposite-- oncoming hairline or high tide head. As far as I was concerned, if the accent wasn't proof that he lacked mental prowess, the reduced piece of realty on his forehead was.

He was sitting next to a small Chinese girl of about 17 or 18, who seemed earnest in her role as his listener. She was attractive with high cheekbones and unblemished skin. Her hair was in a ponytail�a lustrous black sheen that I admired. She had yet to speak, but I could see that she was an active member of the burgeoning conversation. Her body language was perfect. She stared into his eyes with her shoulders slightly turned toward her counterpart, making her the perfect receiver for his message. He began to speak again and I began to listen.

"I can only concentrate on one thing at a time", he intimated.

In my mind this admission could only serve as fodder for my earlier observation --the man was intellectually challenged.

The revving of the bus suddenly muffled his voice and all I could hear was the occasional word. The conversation had lost me for a few seconds when his voice suddenly returned.

"I practice TM", he continued.

The Chinese girl looked queerly at him. He then proceeded to demonstrate that he was adept at the art of conversation by acknowledging his new companion's strangely furrowed brow.

"Trans-cen-dental meditation... you know, to levitate and concentrate", he said smiling. He was exaggerating the word transcendental in such a way my ears began to flare. His New Yawk accent droned heavy, "Transss-cen-dent-al med-it-at-ion." He hit each syllable and she looked at him like he had two heads. The "l" and the "d" in transcendental and the "d" and "tees" in meditation were over-pronounced. His accent only compounded the odd pronunciation.

Being the astute conversationalist, he could see she still did not understand and continued, "Trans-cen-dental meditation... levitate... concentrate", this time more slowly and deliberately.

"Oh... yeah, yeah, I understand", she uttered in perfect, unaccented American-English. "Many religious men practice this."

Once he realized she was a native English speaker, and understood him, he began to barrage her with his own version of eastern culture.

"Yeah, that's right Buddhist monks do it. These monks, they can sit on beds of nails and not even get punctured. They can concentrate so good that they can control their skin's ability to be pierced. In fact, it is said that some actually levitate above the nails so they don't even have to worry about being stuck."

The Chinese girl shook her head to acknowledge the veritas that was his spoken word.

I sat still and took in more of the gospel according to unibrow caveman.

"The Chinese have given us many arts", he continued, "But I think martial arts are their greatest gift to us." He said this as if the Chinese worked for several millennia to develop a culture that was intended to be exploited for its value by the West.

At that moment, I envisioned a cartoon Chinaman with all of the stereotypes. Short stature, buckteeth, glasses, and the wonderful ability to misplace "r" with "l" and "l" with "r". These traits, of course, were essential components to his make-up. My cartoon Chinaman bore a remarkable resemblance to Mr. Magoo's Charlie and the many Jerry Lewis, Asian-persuasion impersonations I've seen countless times.

"Aah velly good, Unibrow-san", my Chinaman said. "Charrie teach you how to fuck peopre up good with Kung-Fu." Just then I thought, I watch too much terravision, and let out a little laugh at the pun I just conjured. I quieted to avoid detection.

My bus moron was undaunted. He began to explain to the Chinese girl that he was practicing Tae Kwon Do and was a brown belt.

"I'd like to learn other styles." He paused a moment. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. I believe he may have briefly engaged in a mantra-less session of TM. You know, trans-cen-den-tal med-i-ta-tion.

He came out of this brief silence to fill our ears with more tidbits.

"Did you know the Chinese in San Francisco banned Bruce Lee from teaching martial arts?"

He was a veritable encyclopedia on Chinese culture.

"Yeah, but he did it anyway. Bruce Lee taught Jeet Kune Do. He could crush a person's skull with only jabbing his hand from one inch away. That's concentration."

"That's murder!" I said with a nervous chuckle.

I don't know what came over me, but I spoke. He glanced over to look at me and then ignored me. I was glad, because I was sure he would kick my ass with whatever form of Tae Kwon Do he practiced.

"Yeah, I really appreciate the Chinese arts..." He stopped short with a sigh at the end of the sentence.

From there, nothing was said. I could not help thinking that my interruption cut the conversation short. I was an out-of-the-closet eavesdropper. There is nothing more embarrassing than being exposed for your true self, I thought. The silence was gut wrenching. My intrusion into this conversation filled me with guilt. I sat for minutes thinking how awful I really was. I sought solace in the many lights of the high-rises and skyscrapers dotting the outside scenery. I felt a calm peace come over me. I was beginning to wonder if I was engaging in a silent form of TM, you know, trans-cen-den-tal med-i-ta-tion.

As we neared Boston, the caveman returned like MacArthur to the Pacific East.

"You know that the Chinese are responsible for spaghetti?"

I continued to spy with peripheral vision to avoid detection. I have amazing peripheral vision. I should have been a fish.

The Chinese girl raised her eyebrows in honest surprise. She must have thought he was finished.

"Yeah, see what you would call lo mein, is actually spaghetti. Or is it the other way around?" He sat with a grimace of contemplation. "Yeah, I think it is the other way around." He sat smiling and then continued. "Marco Polo marched through China and brought it back to Italy. People always think spaghetti equals Italian when it's actually Chinese! Isn't that funny?" He laughed.

She laughed.

I laughed.

He shot dagger eyes back at me.

I cowered at his gaze and shut up quickly. I was sure this Neanderthal would pummel me out of existence if I continued to drop in on his conversation.

"And what about the Great Wall?"

"Oh it is magnificent, isn't it?" she replied.

"It's fantastic!" He paused. "I think it used to be bigger. Like it could go around the world twice or something." His face wore the earnest countenance of a history lecturer.

She smiled.

"10,000 people died building that wall. Some are buried right in it. Pretty gruesome, huh?"

She smiled and nodded.

"I wonder if you cracked open a few sections what you'd find?"

She barely smiled and then turned away.

To me it was obvious that she was bored with her new found companion. His mind was on one track and she did not have a lever to redirect it. The bus was filled with silence as we exited the MassPike and turned toward downtown. We approached the first stop when bus boy graced our ears with his banter once again.

"Hey, so whaddya think, huh? Do I know a lot about Chinese culture?" He was beaming with pride.

"You certainly know more than I do about it", replied the Chinese girl.

I was incredulous. She let him go on and on about Chinese culture only to appease him with a remark like that. I mean it was her duty to correct him, to tell him he had the typical western interests and knowledge of the culture. His interests were predicated on violence and awe for the macabre. He was clearly in need of some type of reprimand, and who was more qualified to do this than the Chinese girl sitting next to him?

"Can you imagine that?" he said with great pride, "I know more than a Chinese person about their own culture. �Who woulda ever thought that!" He smiled at me. He looked at the others on the bus and smiled. Then he brought his gaze back to the Chinese girl who was smiling back at him.

"Oh, I'm not Chinese."

His smile faded quickly.

"I'm Aleutian, you know, an essssssss-kiiiiiiii-mohhhhhhhh." He was silent. I was silent. The bus hushed at her remark and then the Aleutian girl giggled.

"South Station!" hollered the bus driver.

Embarrassed, I quickly scurried off the bus and left to catch my train.

 

 

Copyright © 2004 Seth Allen
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"