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At the Bus Stop by Carmen Maciarello, First Year [ Ed. After being introduced to the four temperaments, the first year students were asked to write an illustrative story about one of them. One student wrote one for each: choleric, phlegmatic, melancholic and sanguine. ] First she makes a fist of her left hand and tilts her wrist up, then she looks down to see that her heavy sleeve covers her watch. So she pushes the offending sleeve up on her forearm. And all this happens each of the four times she's checked her watch in the three minutes she's stod at the bus stop.Now Bridget's standing in the street looking for the bus. The light is red, she's looking, looking, the light turns and cars head at her. She stomps to the curb. No bus in sight, she begins to dig in her purse. Down the purse goes on the ground, and she squats beside it. She moves purposefully. She is small, but the width of her shoulders speaks of intransigence. She searches. Each item is moved aside, as she methodically examines the deep regions of her handbag. Her brows are drawn together, her mouth scowls, too; certainly she is now inwardly cursing. Out it comes at last: cigarettes and a lighter. Movement sweeps those waiting at the bus stop. Others gather near the curb. The bus is coming. Bridget swiftly stands and awaits the bus. The line forms loosely behind her. The bus pulls to the curb, and the doors open a few feet from her. But before she can enter she is cut off by a woman who sweeps ahead without showing any courtesy! He is a man of a heft one can only call portly. He is rotund, but not ponderous. His appearance is stately, and his movements are slow and serious, befitting a man of his stature. He waits for the bus, leaning on his umbrella with one hand. The other hand moves between his mouth and his pocket, ferrying candy dreamily from packet to tongue. As he waits and gently chews his candy his body seems to take root here on the sidewalk. People come and go around him. He is walked around, treated as though he truly is a tree growing at the bus stop. The hand goes again to the pocket but this time it comes back empty. The man looks momentarily confused. Just then his cell phone rings. Confusion turns to dismay. His fingers fumble in their quest for the phone from his breast pocket. The ringing stops, and then quickly begins again. The man raises the phone to his ear. A harsh voice can be heard. Someone is demanding to know where he is, how much longer he will be. The call over, the caller appeased, the man resumes his reverie. His hand moves unconsciously into his pocket now empty of sweets. Fretfulness passes over his smooth features. She is exceedingly tall and exceedingly thin. She is waiting for the bus, reading Simone Weil. As she reads her nose runs. She is in everyone's way, but passing pedestrians and their problems go unnoticed. She is deeply, deeply involved in this book. The bus is late. Of course the bus is late today, when she must get to the library before it closes. There are several books she wants to look at, including one on hagiography, the biography of saints. She is thinking of converting to Catholicism. Currently she is a non-practicing Methodist. But reading Simone Weil has changed something for her. She must discover more about saints and martyrdom. Could she be a saint? There is so much to think about here. If the bus doesn't come soon maybe she should take a cab. But cabs are so expensive. If only the bus would come, and her plans could continue unaltered. Trials like this must come up every day for a saint. How to meet them and still remain saintly? She sneezes and is overcome with tears. Being ill is so hard! The corner of Mason and Powell is very lively this early evening; many people are returning home from shopping laden with bags and boxes, business people grapple with umbrellas and briefcases, families of tourists fold and unfold maps. The bus stop is filled with interesting-looking people. May waits for the bus, eavesdropping on the fragments of conversations that swirl around her as she watches the people in front of her. That bald fat man munching candy has been at this bus stop with her before. He must work near here. And the skinny woman with the nose dripping into her book lives in May's neighborhood. For all that San Francisco is a city, it is a very small city. So many of these people May has seen before! "Okay, so Bill was my second husband. Way back, before I came out West, I was married to the Carpet King of Springfield, Mass." And "…he robbed the donut shop, remember? They said he had powdered sugar on the end of his nose?" May laughs, giddily. As the bus squeals to a stop before her, May's buoyant laughter carries her aboard. |
 
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