In the Measure of Every Part
Short Story [Feb 2024]
They walked onto the bus and flashed their blue cards across the interface. The blinking green light and the hesitated beep let them know they were playing by the rules. They sat down, the two young men.
One snarked, “We live in a digital age.”
“Been here for a while,” laughed the other with contrived precociousness.
“Where do we go now?”
“Ballard, I suppose.”
A few stops rolled by and the young men noticed pretty women, crows, dirty road signs, and rain outside the scratched plexiglass window. In actuality, the window was a poor lens for the world that lay behind it. But it was their lens.
It had been about ten to fifteen blocks since they boarded when an older man climbed the stairs and conquered the first open seat he saw. The young men were relatively unfazed. They saw each person enter the bus during the twenty-second stops and after twenty seconds more they abandoned all recollection. Faces were processed for familiarity and emotion, but mostly for sexual attraction and abnormality. The differentiation between what was supposed to be and what was uncomfortably strange was always front of mind.
The young men spoke, again.
“When do we get off?”
“In a little while I suppose. Two, maybe three more stops”
“Let’s figure it out before the rain starts again.”
“This is Seattle. We both know it’s gonna’ rain.”
The same man the two young men had so readily ignored started to speak. His ramblings were hard to decipher over the inherent buzz of the diesel behemoth they rode but they were loud enough to notice he was rambling on about a loved one. Clutching his cane and removing his blue-rimmed cap from his head he ran his hand through his wolf-gray hair. Adjusting his glasses and reinstating the hat to its rightful place atop his bowed brow, he spoke the only words the young men could sincerely hear: “That’s that!” The old man exclaimed to himself.
The rest of the ride came and went like the passing of the street lamps. And the old man remained silent. His crossed hands perched upon his erect cane. His hat hid his eyes.
The men felt the inertia of the slowing bus until it came to a predestined halt. The machine exhaled. The doors swung open.
They arose from their seats, gathered their backpacks and headed toward their exit. The old man stirred to his feet, too. The two men followed him in egress. They climbed down and through the leaning vestibule, each nodding to the patient driver.
The old man stood at the bus stop as the bus revved away to pursue its fate. It ran for one reason and one reason only.
The men paused.
“Where to, again?” said one.
“There’s a café around the corner—open ‘til two o’clock. Or the bar where Jill and I met. Decent spot.” said the other.
The man inquiring of the duo’s next move looked back at the old man.
“Sir!” he exclaimed.
The man paid no mind.
“Sir, what are you up to? Wanna grab a coffee?”
The man looked up from his wristwatch and set his cane forward to brace his turn toward the men. The two young men had trouble discerning the wetness of the rain from the possible welling of the old man’s eyes. Everything was damp.
“Me?” he spoke through the trickling rain, his breath steaming up into the purple dusk.
“Yeah. There’s a place around the corner,” said the man with ideas.
The old man paused and the young men waited.
“Well, ok,” he replied.
The old man’s cane found purchase before him and his feet followed as he paced toward the two men. Each appendage, one at a time.
The two young men received him and walked to the café around the corner from the bus stop. The neon sign above the door flashed “The Reading Room.”
Walking to the counter, one of the men grabbed three white mugs of black coffee. The other man and the old man found a table by the window. The young man with coffee in tow placed the mugs on the table and distributed them each to their rightful owner.
“What are your names?” Asked the old man.
“This is Greg. And I’m Allan.”
“Pleasure,” the old man smiled.
The three sat in silence looking out another soaked glass pane. Each assessing the outside world through beads of February rain tracking down the window. The sun was set now and passing headlights illuminated the streaks.
“Where are you headed?” inquired Allan. “We’re just hanging.”
“Just walking, for now.” The old man answered.
Greg sipped.
“Tough night?” Allan asked.
“No harder than the night before,” replied the old man, removing his cap and setting it on the table. “Every night is a gift. What are yours?”
“Pardon?” asked Allan after swallowing another drink.
“Your gifts.”
“I’m not sure we understand,” replied Greg, looking at Allan in confusion.
“You two are quite the duo,” said the old man. “No where else to go? Nothing to do?”
The men shrugged.
“That’s a shame,” shot the old man. “Tonight is beautiful.”
The three sat listening to the corny jazz in the low light of the quiet café. The three uttered no sounds except the odd clearing of the throat. There was plenty to see and speaking didn’t seem appropriate.
Finishing his cup of coffee, the old man reached into his jacket pocket and counted two wrinkled dollar bills and set them on the table.
“That’s that!” He exclaimed. “No need to pay me any mind, any longer. Thank you, gentlemen, for your company. I have somewhere to be—don’t want to be late, after all.”
The old man arose and placed his cane securely before him as he rebooted an effort to proceed forward and out the door.
Allan and Greg sat with each other for a little while longer, watching the rain.
“What are our gifts?” Greg asked Allan.
“I thought it may have been our willingness to talk,” Allan guessed.
“Yeah, well, talk is cheap,” laughed Greg.
Allan smiled at Greg’s cliché, surveying his empty mug.
“Well this is a strange night,” Greg chuckled.
“Mmm,” Allan agreed.
“Where to next?” Asked Greg.
The night was indeed remarkable. The sky, which had been a radiant orange, then crimson, then a whispering violet, was finally obscured by city light and the source of the evening rain. Each friend tried to ideate something else to do, but nothing came to mind. The old man who had visited them was long gone and neither Allan nor Greg caught his name.
“Maybe we just stay here?” Greg replied to himself.
Allan knew he had obligations in the morning—a twelve hour shift at the convention center setting things up just to tear them down again. But his mind was preoccupied, missing his kid brother in Spokane instead. He imagined the Thursday evening he must have had. And how he didn’t look him in the eye when Allan left in his ‘98 Dodge Caravan for his new, dingy Rainier Beach studio apartment eight months ago.
“Yeah, maybe so…” Allan remarked.
And as the rain picked up into a raucous deluge, Allan’s mind lingered on the time his brother fought to stay upright on his bicycle on a July afternoon years ago. And how his smile beamed brighter than the summer sun when he peddled his way around the tawny elementary school soccer pitch for the first time. The two brothers had laughed in delight of the victory before they heard their mother yell from across the field, beckoning them to return home.