To celebrate the 33rd anniversary on Wednesday of Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini’s triumphant return from exile, Iran re-enacted his arrival at a Tehran airport, using a cardboard cutout to stand in for the late Iranian leader.
Nothing can be more frustrating and fear and doubt-inducing than when you feel no confidence in yours words. Especially when all you. do. is. write. People throw around the term “writer’s block,” as if it’s something you can just circumvent. Me? I pummel head first into it over and over until my head just gets bloody and broken. And then I just write terrible things until that feeling of when it just fits, feels like home, comes back. The feeling is almost ethereal (yup, I took it there). If I examine it too much, it’ll disappear, or just become a mess of things that serve no purpose. “Leave me alone!” Said feeling says to logic.
All of this is to say I know I should be writing 10 different things right now. But instead I choose to write about the lady on the H2 bus.
When I get on the bus in the morning, I’m all grumps. I haven’t had my coffee yet, so I can’t be bothered to be a normal, sociable being. Headphones are a must.
But special mornings are when I see my favorite person in the world: lady of the H2. Headphones. Off.
She’s older, 70s maybe, but seems healthy enough. She has gray hair with a thin, red cloth wrapped around it, serving no purpose whatsoever. She’s wearing one of those long, pajama t-shirts that go well past your knees. Yup, one of these numbers. But longer. And more cartoon characters. Her footwear of choice: boots. Typically rainboots (with or without rain), or furry ones when the temperature creeps below 70. She’s sensitive to the cold, apparently. Just like me, my self-centered self thinks.
Let me stop you now. She’s not crazy. Not a bag lady. She’s got people. She knows other people on the bus and they know her (and not just from “the bus,” but from real life). She’s got a home and takes the bus to get there. I don’t present this information as if to say, “Well, now she’s worthy of my consideration.” It’s just to be accurate. To give you an idea of who she is.
Back to the lady. She’s all smiles. Says stuff and randomly gives a laugh that makes you wanna giggle along: “Ha-HA!” And if you sneeze, you better believe you’re gonna get a “Well, God bless you darling. Ha-HA!”
One day a short Central American man gets on the bus. He walks down the aisle, passes her. She says, in the most shockingly non-malicious way possible, “Hey shorty! Ha-HA!”
BE MY BEST FRIEND IMMEDIATELY, I think to myself.
The other day, an older man was sitting next to her. He was in his late 70s or early 80s, wearing a modest suit. Her stop was coming up, and she turns to him and says, “Excuse me, young man.”
I DIE OF JOY.
The bus stops. She has very short steps and gets up, shuffles toward the entrance, all the while apologizing to the bus driver. “Now thank you Mr. Bus Driver. Sorry, I’ve got short legs, ha-HA!”
“That’s quite alright ma’am.”
“Yes. Now, don’t forget about Sunday.” You know, as if they’ve been going to the same church for decades.
“You have a good one,” bus driver replies.
“You too, Mr. Bus Driver. I thank you kindly. Ha-HA!”
He lowers the bus, and she scoots off, smiles and all. Lady of the H2, you have my heart.
“I loved you all my life. Don’t
fall asleep without me tonight.
They stole the wings from your shoulders.
Flex your arms
rest your muscles on my armor”
We’re numb here as the clock nears 4:30 a.m., and we’re not quite sure what to do. The deaths of Chris Hondros and Tim Hetherington on Tripoli Street still seem unreal. Bryan just walked off from the little space we’ve been huddled in, working. He’ll sleep soon, I hope. The work kept us busy…
