Humus

There is a Haitian woman sitting in the cedar pew in front of mine, well dressed, and makes me wonder how she got her make-up on so perfectly. Her loa sits on her right side, and seems to be pestering her for the entire duration of the Mass. Some times their exchanges seem casual, at other times, she turns hostile towards it (if it is an it). Tells it that he/she should be listening to what the priest is saying (who happens to be a sizeable white man speaking creyol fluently)....but if I were a loa...

The bus today is welcoming for weather like this. At this stop, a medium height African-American man, slim in his 50s with all-grey ungroomed facial hair, the scent of prolonged roaming and a hinting of alcohol in his speech, boards the bus with two larger-than-life duffel bags, that look like war garrisons made from tetrex cloth. He is wearing what looks like a woollen collar from an old jacket,that spread from behind his two ears on either side, like some insects do. Today he is in a baseball jacket, and an embroidered Chinese pants, stopping before his ankles, waiting for the place where his old school nikes start. He stands at a pole near to the middle of the bus and he is a ninja. He holds to the post and ducks down at every traffic light, street traffic, and mumbles silently to himself, that they might find him. Now the bus driver is not happy.

It is 10:14am. I am sitting alone in the train, with a mother and her two daughters across from me, a young unmarried man, obliquely opposite me. A man in a jacket, shorts and thick black rimmed glasses with a back-pack on one shoulder is on the other end of my bench. We get to a stop, and he gets up from his seat and walks to the door of the train, looks around onto the platform, but doesn't come off, the doors close back in, and he is still standing, looking outside. There is a horrid smell that crawls under my nose. The younger girl's entire face clenches and looks at her sister. Seeing each other's reactions, they look to their mother for a confirming eye. we all look around at each other, the mother looks at me and we are all, laughing inside, containing breaths and laughter. soon we are all giggling and looking down the cabin at the man standing at the door. at the next stop, they all get off, and the young man looks at me and holds his nose while he gets off. I laugh, until I realize I alone am left in the cabin, with the trail and the joke. He who laughs last I suppose.

copyright © 2010 Arielle John