Monday, December 26, 2016

A Port in the Storm


Alex   
    I shifted uncomfortably in the seat of the crowded Greyhound bus as it approached the city from the east on the San Bernardino Freeway.  In the darkness, most of my fellow passengers slept.  Sleep for me, however, did not come easily.  A woman seated in the back of the bus with a crying baby was having the same problem. I smiled to myself, a weary little smile.  The kid was proof of perpetual motion: he never stopped crying. I was surprised any sound could come out of that throat after all this time.
     I sat up and attempted to refold my jacket into a more comfortable pillow. What’s the use? I asked myself. In another fifteen minutes, the bus would be stopping, and I’d be looking for someplace else to call home, however temporarily.
     Home.  I don’t even know the meaning of the word.
     I looked up at the lights. Lights illuminating the freeway, lights in buildings. I tried to imagine what the people inside those buildings were doing. Office buildings, with workaholics burning the midnight oil, trying to get rich. Hotels, filled with weary travelers, families on vacation, cheating spouses having trysts. No matter who they were or what they were doing, those people had somebody with them, or somebody to go home to.
     I had no one. Not anymore.
     I looked down at the folded newspaper in my lap. It was three years old. The headline read: SCIENTIST SOUGHT TO TESTIFY IN GEN TECH CASE. The caption under the photograph read Dr. Andrew Stewart, but the face was my own. The same light brown hair, the same blue eyes, the same bone structure—everything was the same. We were identical twins, even though we had been born to different mothers in different countries, ten years apart.
     Some would call that a miracle, others an abomination. My mother had seen it as the latter.
     The bus left the freeway and headed downtown. Los Angeles suited my needs perfectly.  It was the perfect place to lose oneself. I wanted to drop off the face of the earth.  What better place to do it than this city of dreams? The City of Angels.  I found it amusing. If this place were indeed populated by angels, if angels existed, if Heaven existed, I would certainly be banned. I’d never be permitted to set foot on holy ground. I’m a walking, talking sacrilege, I thought miserably. Man’s slap in the face to God.
     By the time the bus pulled into the station, the crying baby in the back had finally drifted off to sleep. His mother’s peace would be short-lived. The moment she moved, rising from her seat to disembark, the howling began all over again. I hoisted my backpack onto one shoulder and slipped into the line in the aisle.  As I stepped off the bus, I was assaulted by a variety of sights and sounds.  Los Angeles was truly a melting pot, populated by people representing a wide range of cultures and speaking a multitude of languages. I made my way through the crowd and entered the large, cavernous station. There were faded fiberglass chairs in lines in the center, some taken, most empty. A row of vending machines lined one wall.  There was a snack bar that was now closed, and small TV sets that operated on quarters. Homeless people slept on the floor at the far end, their worldly belongings stuffed into tattered backpacks, duffels and totes.
      I lowered my own backpack from my shoulder and looked at it for a moment.  I’m one of them, I thought, drawing in a deep breath before moving forward. Might as well join the crowd.
     I found a spot in a corner and lay down, drawing my body into a fetal position. I rested my head on the backpack and finally began to drift off to sleep. Had I become so accustomed to this life that it no longer bothered me?
     I hadn’t been asleep long when the shrill whistle issued by a policeman roused me.  I sat up as a group of people rushed into the terminal and started rounding up the homeless.  I thought they were cops at first. I scrambled to my feet.
     “Come with me.”
     I turned.  Behind me was a young woman who looked to be in her late twenties, dressed in an Old Navy T-shirt and faded jeans. She had warm brown eyes and long auburn hair that hung in messy curls about her shoulders. “You sure don’t look like a cop,” I told her, confident that, unless she was armed, I could easily get away from her.
     “I’m not,” she said, looking mildly insulted. “I’m from the Guardian Angel shelter.  You need a place to stay?”
     I regarded her with amusement. “Do I look that bad?”
     “You’re sleeping on the floor in a bus station,” she reminded me.  “It’s a no-brainer.”
     I scratched my head.  “Yeah, I see your point.”
     She pulled herself to her full five feet two inches. “Well?”
     “Well what?” I asked.
     “Does a warm bed and hot food appeal to you or not?” She looked around.  The people she’d come with were already leading several others out of the terminal. “We only have limited facilities.”
     I nodded. “You talked me into it.”
     She gestured toward the door on the opposite side of the building from which I had entered. “Our van’s outside.”
     “My mother always taught me never to get into a car with strangers,” I said then.  “I don’t even know your name.”
     She shot me an impatient look. “I’m Robyn,” she said. “Robyn Cantwell.  And you?”
     “Alex Stewart.” 

4 comments:

  1. He feels quite alone, at least til the end.

    Calling it the city of angels is rather ironic, considering what kind of place LA is.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. We used to refer to LA and Las Vegas as Sodom and Gomorrah West!

      Delete

Disagreements are welcome; trolls and spammers are not. Any and all comments by either of the latter two will be immediately deleted.