Finding Momentum

He is speak­ing, much too loudly, but nobody is lis­ten­ing. Slowly, delib­er­ately, enun­ci­at­ing every word. He dan­gles his arms over the scratchy seat­backs, toss­ing his right leg over the neigh­bor­ing seat and con­tin­ues his con­ver­sa­tion with the world. He is a ragged man, with tat­ters for clothes.

“It’s because I’m black. Do you hear me?”

Nobody’s pay­ing atten­tion, but everybody’s lis­ten­ing. The man on his left is buried in his Chron­i­cle, the woman to his side is engrossed in her cell phone con­ver­sa­tion. But their still­ness gives their atten­tion away.

“Do you know what they did to me in prison?”

The gen­tle­man seated ahead of him gives a lit­tle cough and leans to mum­ble some­thing to his part­ner. She makes no acknowl­edge­ment of his gesture.

He is not drunk. He is speak­ing intel­li­gently. A lit­tle smile; the motion of the train rocks his body loosely back and forth. And he con­tin­ues, con­tent in his con­ver­sa­tion with the world.

—

He is there again, but in dif­fer­ent form at the bus sta­tion, with big roll-up flimsy shades and an eerie con­fi­dence about him. “Shalom, shalom,” he cries as he approaches two aging ladies seated on my right, “you two look beau­ti­ful. You look absolutely beau­ti­ful.” The 40 bus arrives just in time and they spring out of their seats in a har­ried rush reserved for youth.

He con­tin­ues his col­or­ful mono­logue. It sounds like a speech, and it sounds care­fully rehearsed. Undoubt­edly he takes great plea­sure in doing so, recit­ing line after line, chuck­ling to him­self in mea­sured intervals.

I can­not look into his face, because I am fear­ful that if I lock eyes with this man he will engage me.

In the still­ness he has an audi­ence. Per­haps this is why he speaks.