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Bus Riders Brenda Macintosh watched the fat man lumbering down the aisle, hands
grasping the overhead railings, head turning this way and that, looking
for a vacant seat. He stopped short abreast of her. His hips were so
wide that they nearly made contact with her face. Great, she thought. How long was he going to stand there? Why didn't
he take one of those empty seats toward the back of the bus? But he didn't budge from his post. The bus lurched forward and away
from the curb. Once the bus entered the traffic lane, the man turned
suddenly, so his protruding, "Excuse me," a grinding, mechanical voice interjected. "But
is that seat taken?" Brenda turned her head. The man faced her now, looked down at her,
tiny eyes implanted deep in a jowly face featuring a bulbous nose and
funny, tubular ears. Beads of sweat dripped from a giant Brillo-pad
of steel-gray hair. His thick lips curled in a parody of a smile. He
wore a rumpled brown suit, a sweat-stained white shirt and a dirty,
wrinkled necktie with the knot pulled down several inches. "This?" Brenda asked, pointing to the empty seat, hoping
the man had spoken to someone else. The man nodded. Sweat droplets sprayed his suit jacket, jettisoned
by the movement of his massive head. God, think of something, she told herself, but she could say only,
"Um, no, it's not taken." How could he possibly squeeze into
that small space? "Thank you kindly," the man said in a voice that sounded
like it came from a radio. He lowered himself, somehow squeezing into
the seat, gasping for breath and groaning as he did so. Brenda mashed
herself up against the side of the bus to avoid touching the man, but
his huge hips and thighs pressed against hers as he plumped down on
the seat with an "oomph!" "Ah, that's better," he said. Jesus, Brenda thought. How long would she have to put up with this?
Maybe she should yank the cord and get off here. What would he think,
though? Oh, for Chrissakes, what difference did it make what he thought? The man suddenly jerked forward, then pulled a grimy handkerchief out
of an inside suit pocket and mopped his sweaty brow, drops of moisture
flying off in all directions. "Too hot," the man said. "Makes you perspire." Brenda smelled his sweat and caked on grime that saturated the air
around her, and she wondered how long she could stand it. She suppressed
another gag. "I need to make a phone call," he said, not looking at Brenda,
but staring straight ahead at the back of the next seat. "It'll
only be a minute." Brenda nodded absently. Why was he telling her this? He shifted and moved his arms about, slapping at his chest and thighs
until he said "Ah hah! Here it is." A cell phone materialized
in his fat hand. Brenda watched, fascinated, as the man targeted a sequence
of buttons with a sausage-like index finger. "Maggie, put me through to Mr. Yelir, please," the man said
after a moment. Brenda couldn't help but eavesdrop. In spite of her discomfort, she
found something intoxicating, magnetic, about the man. She couldn't
understand it. "Mr. Yelir," the man said after a pause. "I'll need
a description, of course. We'll find her. Don't worry. You can count
on us." Another pause. "Hold it, Mr. Yelir. I'm not in my office. Just a second while
I find something to write with." He grunted and poked about, patting
and smacking his pockets. "Ah. Here we Brenda stared at his blubbery fingers as he jotted down the description
with one hand while holding the cell phone against his funny ear with
the other. But something was wrong with those hands. Too many fingers?
Puzzled, she started to count, when she felt his gaze on her face, actually
felt it, like a heat lamp, and she turned her head to look at him. Something
was wrong, too, with his — "You're not Nora Finley, are you?" he asked, his eyes boring
right through her. She shook her head, bewildered. "Er, no," she said, wondering
why he'd ask her such a question. But then she realized she pretty much
matched the description he'd repeated. She felt suddenly dizzy, in the
glare of those probing eyes, the pupils that seemed to spin around,
while his question, his voice, reverberated inside her skull. She worried
that she might become ill. "No, no I'm not," she repeated
weakly, hoping he'd turn away. "Got it," he said, only he was no longer looking at her,
but talking into his phone. "Yes. We've got another operative working
on this case, like a tag-team match." He turned toward Brenda once
more and moved his head up and down, appraising her. "Yes, yes,
and pretty too, you say. Right." Brenda shook her head. What was going on? The man on the other end
— Mr. Yelir — wanted this man, the fat man, to find a Nora
Finley who matched her description? And did he suspect that she was
that woman? But she'd told him that she wasn't. Should she tell him
again? She felt uneasy, unnerved. Something was wrong here.
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