Bruddah died today on the bus stop bench where he lived. Cindy called my cell phone today to tell me the news. The bus driver reported he was sitting up on his bench at 10 in the morning, but Josie said by afternoon he was dead. The three of us passed by him each day. As recent hires, we got the newbie parking in the Methodist Church's dark, dank, stuffy basement, trekking the 15 minutes to and from work through heat and rain past the Art Academy and the bus stop bench that Bruddah occupied day and night.
During the 7 months I held this job, I passed him almost every day, dragging my little vintage bag-lady wheeled cart filled with files, books, lunch, coffee thermos, water, work shoes, etc. As my teenage bus-riding daughter often reminded me, those of us who spend lots of time in cars have no idea what city streets are really like. These commuter walks refreshed my memory. The world has a grittier look and feel to habitual pedestrians and those who rely on bus transport. You learn to close your eyes when a bus or truck passes by, spewing jets of hot particle laden air in your face; if one wants to avoid bodily injury, one dare not step off a curb on a green light before making eye contact with right turning drivers and waiting to see if they actually stop. My little cart made me temporarily semi-handicapped, and I came to deeply resent the fact that some curbs are inexplicably not accessible, requiring either dangerous or long detours.
Often, a small dark cloud hung over my head during these walks, a cumulus of job stress, adjustment anxiety, the indignities of finding myself at age 55 “on probation” with no paid sick leave, vacation, or retirement benefits and a parking situation that made the logistics of going into “the community” complex.
Bruddah lived in his own little bubble too. He sat or slept all day on one bench at the bus stop, surrounded by bus riders who made do with the other bench, or stood as far away from him as possible. He appeared totally out of it, never acknowledging or talking to others; mentally ill one assumed, though he didn’t talk to himself either, aside from occasional muttering. One day I offered him a small bottle of water from my cart, and he accepted it with a simple and socially appropriate “Thanks”. After several days where I noticed him turning red-faced under the hot summer sun, I gave him an umbrella. Several snacks and water bottles later, we were on waving terms. If I had something to share, I offered it. If not, I just waved and called out “Hi, Bruddah”. Though he habitually sat with eyes downcast, he would look up at me from under bushy eyebrows and give a dainty little kid wave. Sometimes I wondered whether he might be disappointed by a wave alone, but saw no sign of it. If I brought something he always thanked me. Bruddah never asked me, or anyone else as far as I know, for anything.
He gained weight and grew enormous over those few months. At some point, he acquired a walker, but movement of any kind became increasingly difficult for him. I figured he had diabetes, and tried to bring mostly healthy things. The only thing he ever refused was star fruit…that is, until the last day.
It was the end of a long day-- my last one at this job. I felt fortunate to have found an interesting new job, but with no time for transition, I was due there early the next morning. The sky was growing dark, and I donned the mantle of heightened alertness women bear when walking alone at night. As I wheeled my overflowing cart past Bruddah’s bench, I offered some food I’d snagged for him from the workplace snack table. To my surprise, he declined, adding intently “I’m really thirsty—do you know where I could get some water? I can’t move.” Anxious and self-absorbed, I replied that I had no water—then blurted out “I have a new job, and I may not pass this way or see you anymore” to which he responded, “I want water”. Feeling foolish, I stammered an apology, and moved on, worrying about the dark and deserted church basement that lay ahead. Not my proudest moment. A few steps later, I took in his words and realized, hey, I can do that. Wheeling my last-day load to the car, I drove a block to a gas station mini-mart, bought two big water bottles, walked back to Bruddah’s bench, and handed him the water and a $5 bill. “You answered my dreams!” said he when he saw the water. I demurred that it wasn’t much, and wished him well. Returning to the car, my steps were light and fearless, as nighttime enfolded us both in her timeless and loving embrace. It is my hope we were both reborn that night. I know I was.
What if God was one of us
just a slob like one of us
just a stranger on the bus
trying to make his way home
back up to heaven all alone
like a holy rolling stone…?
-Joan Osborne
PS: my spell check keeps trying to change Bruddah’s name to Buddha. Mahalo and aloha ‘oe Bruddah Buddha
PPS: "the last day" was many moons ago...but the writing completed itself only last week.
