The Quiet Disorientation of the Over-Sleeper

I overslept today and I've developed a disorientation that I havent been able to shake yet, and I fear it will follow me till tonight.

At the Trolley station, a man in shorts walked up pushing an upright vaccuum down the sidewalk the same way you might push a baby-carriage or a lawn mower. It was a dull gray plastic that was scratched up and the bag and cord were also gray.

It was not plugged in.

He waits next to me on the bench for the Trolley to show up. I attribute the poor condition of the vaccuum to him using it outside on the sidewalk or on the front lawn. Perhaps today is the day he travels back to Mom's house to vaccuum her back deck and her dog.

I consider trying to sell him on the idea of a bagless vaccuum until the trolley shows.

During rush hour you can count on a common host of characters. They are reliable and you will very soon recognize people along your route, you will learn their sad stories from overhead celphone conversations, and their poor choice of reading material. We are all the same in our suburban commuting misery. Today I am well past rush hour and I am contained with an unfamiliar audience of people.

I sit next to a man who is reading a pocket bible. It's tiny and has a leather zipper cover. It's smaller than a pocket bible actually, like a third the size...almost like those little books they used to have in Cracker Jack boxes...perhaps the kind of bible you would have if you drove a clown car. I lean in closer to see what part of the bible when I realize that it's written in Arabic and the man is mouthing the words as if he were silently chanting or trying to memorize a passage. It's a pocket Koran!

He has a large mole on his cheek and the conflicting smell of someone who uses lots of deodorant but no soap. On his lap is a plastic bag containing a blender. I look around to see if anyone else has brought a home appliance along for the ride.

The man in front of me has his shirt on inside out. It's a GAP pollo type shirt and the seams on his shoulders stand out. The back of the shirt says:

GAP
made in Vietnam
M

He is holding up a photocopied packet of medical textbook stuff. He too is mouthing the words and I'm guessing he's a Medical Student on his way into the city to take an exam. I wonder if he's aware that his shirt is inside out. Perhaps he's some kind of undistractable Genius working on a cure for the Avian flu and only wears clothes to keep himself warm.

Across the Aisle is a man in his early sixties. He's over six foot, lean and very handsome. His jaw is strong and his features are chiseled. The old man has some sort of involutary movement issue and his leg stomps or his hand shakes. He seems frustrated and continues to work to still his body. I diagnose him with early onset Parkinsons and continue to take notes. He's dressed well, and I notice that he missed a few spots shaving. I wonder if I'll be brave enough to keep shaving when it comes for me. He's got a full head of beautiful silver hair, and I think 'Lucky'

The Medical student finally realizes that his shirt is inside-out and now cant read more than a paragraph without checking and rechecking his shirt. This makes me laugh.

A thick woman with three plastic bags boards the trolley and wants to sit next to the old man. He looks up at her with fear and embarrassment, but still scoots to make room on the bench seat. My heart goes out to him, and I marvel over the next few minutes how he is able to close his eyes and concentrate on being still. I think about the power of the mind, and the strength of mens souls.

We're a block away from the Station when he begins to audibly weep.