TUG

Ben Harris

It is Monday and the sun’s been up for two hours. The Monday magic that ever inspires me is in its shimmering glory. I got much pep in my step approaching the tiny Greyhound bus depot; my visit here this time I chalk up a sweet success. I had walked the streets of my old haunts and stood before the boarding house I roomed in, still standing but vacant now, with overgrown weeds. But sweetest of all is that I made cursory contact with my lover from that former time. I’d met her on day one, then. We’d become fast friends, she took me on daily tours of the neighborhoods, and sang to me at night. Though I had not seen her during this two-day visit, I did encounter two people who gave me pleasant updates, and promised to pass my phone number to her.

My bus is scheduled to depart in less than one hour, and it hasn’t arrived yet. I turn from the sidewalk and go inside the depot for a casual look-around and to catch a cool draft of AC. I already have my return ticket to leave this university town I hadn’t set eyes on in nearly twenty years. I used to be a student here and I’d missed the collegiate atmosphere, still palpable now. I ache with remembrance.

I exit the depot and this time I pay attention to the few fellow travelers huddled about and those seated in cars awaiting arrivals. There are no conversations, we’re all strangers. I am anxious to board, get seated and lean back for some needed rest, and meditate on this venture. Then I see someone I feel I need to know.

She sits atop the newspaper vending cage right at the corner of the lot, a carry-on bag lies against her perch. It’s hard to not pay attention to her, all alone where she is. She seems to be acting a role. I try to eye her secretly. But after a while she has my undivided attention. Large sunglasses accessorize a blue sweatsuit and her midriff is uncovered, revealing a silver ring in her navel. Her movements are fluid, and I am impressed that she’s quite satisfied in her aloneness. She’s at play with the aura that envelops her lean body. Right now, she radiates tranquility as she examines her manicured fingernails and sandalled feet. I determine then that her body is her currency.

I feel drawn. I walk with military precision right up to the vending cage. I stand facing her and I can barely make out the amused pupils behind the gray-tinted glasses.

You know, I feel a tug coming from you. Like I am in your orbit—or, maybe you’re in my orbit, like the moon to the earth.

She smiles. You’re the moon.

Perhaps, I say. Where are you headed?

She takes a moment. Then, Alabama.

Where in Alabama?

Montgomery. I live there. I am on my way back. Been here a week.

The city of Rosa Parks.

And others, she interjects.

What brings you to this town?

She tosses her tresses like I’ve crossed a line. A little, um, recreation. With friends, okay?

I tell her about my visit here, that I was a university student. I gush about the good times I had here. I mention my old lover and how she helped me to navigate the terrain, and how I had wanted to reconnect.

Don’t talk about her.

I am stopped cold at her insistence. But I recover quickly. My eyes sweep over her. I look at her face, her midriff, then her feet. When I am looking at her feet, she stretches out her legs, likely to give me better vantage. You’re supple.

She squeals with delight. Supple! What a word.

You represent womankind so well, you’re on the menu.

Oooh, her mouth makes an oh. She pulls her glasses down over her nose. The whites of her eyes bespeak good health. You got any money?

I don’t feel put upon, and her bluntness puts me at ease. I am sure she’s simply needing to measure my worthiness, as women are wont to do. I deftly extract my wallet. Right here, I point at the slit behind the plastic cards, is where I keep my big bills. I show her the edges of three C-notes. And in the main compartment Is where the other bills are. See?

She only glances at the bills. Give me some money.

I don’t even know your name.

You do. You’ve forgotten already? It’s Earth. She laughs uproariously. She has strong teeth. Now I see linear indentations at her mouth’s corners. I stare.

Whaat? she pleads.

You’ve got dimples there. You are interesting. And arresting.

You, too. Then she puts up her hand like a traffic cop. Don’t come so close.

I suddenly realize that I am indeed two feet from her face. I take three steps back.

Not that far, she chides. She’s more relaxed now. What do you do?

Adult literacy. You know, help people who got reading problems.

Hmm.

I help people, too. And I enjoy life.

By the way, I write stories about interesting people.

She perks up, almost at attention. You write books?

No, stories. You can google an online magazine and see. I tell her the name of the magazine.  It’s the Black Lives Matter issue, I tell her, placing one hand behind her on the vending cage for balance.

Don’t touch me.

I’m not.

You were going to. I can be cold, and I can be hot, she says without rancor.

A Greyhound bus pulls into the lot. It’s my bus. My bus is here, I tell her, with some regret.

Give me some money, Mister Moon, she says again, and puts her dimples on display.

I again extract my wallet. I’ll give you ten dollars, I say, holding the bill in my hand.

Ten dollars! She is beside herself.

Yes, and I stuff the ten-dollar bill into her purse that’s straddling her shoulder. I tell her to punch my number into her cell phone. She does. Then I take my notebook from my backpack and ask her to jot down her name and address.

She looks nosily into my belongings. What’s that? she asks.

That’s the cap I had on yesterday. See, I spilled wine on it. I take the cap and show her the name of my city and the city’s logo stitched on.

I want it.

It’s discolored with red wine.

I want it. She snatches it, and I’m fine with that.

The announcement for me to board is heard. Kiss me here, I offer my right cheek. She gives me a light peck. I poke her midriff, then turn to board my bus. I take a seat that gives me a view of her. She is examining the cap she snatched and placing it atop her head.  I am glad she has the cap. The bus is slowly moving onto the highway, and I can still see her, at play with the aura that envelops her.