I stepped up the tall metal stairs and onto the travel bus, scooting carefully between the cluttered rows of church women who had already begun whooping and making a general commotion. Nights like these just didn’t come often enough for the sweet, gentle “followers-of-God” sort, who used the outlet to throw all the usual hallway gossip right out onto the proverbial table. No subject was too vulgar, too taboo, and I knew that this sexually-repressed social behavior would only escalate into the next few evening hours. Being the only male present, I realized my chances of being drawn into such a vortex of perversion were outstanding, so I hastened to the rear of the bus.
“Kyle! Right here!”
Near the last row sat Sarah, patting her hands over the adjacent seat and smiling. I gave it only a moment’s thought before sitting. Sarah was 24 and fairly attractive. She was thin but animated, and when she smiled, the left corner of her mouth turned upward and into a subtle-yet-charming smirk. She seemed naturally confident, speaking relentlessly in run-on sentences which always tended to start with, “oh my God, one time...” Her voice was pretty in the way hogfish are pretty. It was not what you would call “elegant” or “refined” - a high, throaty Appalachian dialect with a little “ghetto fabulous” thrown in - but it was curiously appealing. And the wild stories she spun could hit you like sucker punches, never knowing where the hell they came from. But she rambled them off without skipping a beat, and you just knew that she was telling the truth.
“I’m not sittin’ with all them,” she said, fidgeting in her seat.
“Yeah,” I chuckled, “they’re all together. No one to remind them that they’re still married and good church-going individuals.”
The bus began to move finally, hissing and whirring and making fretfully wide turns that made all the passengers cringe in anticipation of hitting something.
“Oh my God, this one time my mother got married in Las Vegas in the back of a Monte Carlo to this dude who owned a car dealership, and the Monte Carlo was the nicest car on the lot. It was fun, but I was seventeen and pregnant with Noah. Oh my God, I got kicked out of the Hard Rock Casino for leaning on a slot machine. Some security guy came up to me and said, ‘How old are you?’ and I said, ‘Seventeen.’ And he said, ‘Well, you’re going to have to leave,’ and I said, ‘The hell I’m leaving...I’m nine-and-a-half months pregnant, and I’m here with my mom, and I’m not getting the fuck up,’ and he said, ‘Then I’m going to have to escort you out,’ so I said, ‘take me away.’”
She stuck her arms outward, palms facing up, waiting for invisible handcuffs and pursing her lips together defiantly.
“Damn,” I said.
“Yeah, people are mean out there in Utah--“
“Las Vegas is in Nevada,” I interrupted.
“I know, I’m talking about Utah. We used to live in Utah. There’s nothing in Utah. Just a bunch of Mormons, and Mormons are mean. It’s like, they don’t like you if you’re different. The kids were mean at school, too. Those fuckers used to make fun of Noah for being Korean. His daddy told him that he was an Indian, but I was like, ‘No, you’re Korean. You might have a little Indian in you, but you’re mostly Korean.’ But yeah, Mormons are rude. They come to your door and stuff, and I’m always messing with them, trying to get them to come in and fuck me. Not really, you know, but it makes them leave.”
She snorted, the mucous bubbling in her nasal cavities. She muttered something under her breath, but I didn't catch it.
“Did you know that the Mormons do this thing where they baptize dead people?” I asked.
“Do what?”
“Yeah, it’s called ‘baptism-by-proxy,’” I explained. “Mormons run all those family tree trace programs on the Internet, because they want to know the lineage of other Mormons. Sometimes, they have these ceremonies where they ‘offer’ baptism to the spirits of dead Mormon ancestors into the Mormon faith. A few Mormons got into trouble years ago when they tried to baptize some Jews who died in the Holocaust.”
“That’s messed up,” she said.
Looking around, I became aware that the bus had stopped in front of an old schoolhouse which had recently been converted to an apartment complex. The classrooms were now flats, and the old lunchroom now a leisure area. I wondered if this meant that every living space came with a free pencil sharpener already installed on the wall. Ahead, the church ladies had ceased their suggestive banter, and were peering nosily out the port side windows of the bus.
Ms. Fannabel, a shriveled woman of 81 years and frequent Sunday Mass attendee, made her way slowly outside, checking her locks an incalculable number of times before finally shuffling across the icy parking lot and around the bus. The driver, who was large and seemed quite incorrigible, stooped low and clutched her waist, hoisting her delicate frame up the tall stairs and into the aisle. She thanked him for his generosity, and took her seat.
“Oh my God, do you know what Diane told me about Ms. Fannabel?” Sarah had straightened in her seat, sitting on her legs and smirking at me. “She told me that Maxine told her that Kim told her that Ms. Fannabel had sex with a 40-year old man, like two weeks ago.”
I was dumbfounded, and more than a little skeptical.
“It’s true. This guy was like a family friend, and he came to check on her at home, and they ended up doing it! She’s 81! I can’t even imagine. I mean, what was wrong with that guy?! Ms. Fannabel is wild, man. She wore a see-through blouse to work once. Did you know that?”
I told her I didn’t, and that I could have lived my entire life without ever knowing. She laughed out loud. I wondered if the story was true, trying not to conjure any disturbing mental images in the process. I didn’t know her, admittedly; but somehow, one night stands with men half her age just didn’t quite fit my understanding of the woman.
Ms. Fannabel enjoyed reading books to the children, above all; but she made time enough to visit all the various age groups, as well. Most kids just wanted to disappear into Game Boy Colors, but Ms. Fannabel always managed to entertain them with old games like Jacks, Tic-Tac-Toe, and Marbles. I don’t know how she did it.
She was also frequently the subject of much snickering among my middle-aged co-workers. Being 81 years old, she was quite evidently behind the times. Her attire mostly included 1950s era blouses, brooches, and other articles (usually quite gaudy); and her stringy silver hair was never styled. She frequently wore a multi-colored rhinestone ball cap bearing several past Kentucky Derby pins, of which she was most proud - although a few of the more tasteless employees often joked that she wore matching multi-colored rhinestone granny panties underneath her bloomers. As much as I could tell, she was completely oblivious that others were making fun. The church ladies treated her as if she were a child herself, humoring her long-winded speeches about child-rearing, the Reagan administration, or whatever happened to be on her mind, and selfishly asserting their dominance over her to stifle their own frequent (but pervasive) insecurity at the concept of growing older.
The bus started up again, rumbling for a moment before rolling on. Sarah began to prattle about her younger days living in the adventurous West End of Louisville, recalling the necessity to stuff one’s necklaces into one’s shirt and drop rings into pockets, laughing whimsically at the tender memories. As always, the subject of her conversation segued into something completely unrelated. She had just begun to tell me about the current discomfort of her “glam” pants, as she called them - about how they must have gotten smaller, and about what sorts of activities in which she was partaking when last she wore them - when the bus finally hissed to a stop near the front entrance of Derby Dinner Playhouse, a pseudo-swank family dining and entertainment establishment.
It had been our destination all along. The lush dining was crawling with guests as we entered, all of them lounging at candle-lit tables and shuffling through the narrow aisles. Our rather large congregation was led across the floor and seated with much confusion. I followed quickly, praying I’d find a seat with the younger staff. Sarah had already made her way to a seat, but before I could join her, the table became occupied to capacity. I glanced around, scanning the general area for acceptable alternative seating, but there was no use. The ratio of asses to seats was even. I turned to the hostess, who was beautiful but visibly flustered.
“Excuse me,” I inquired. “I don’t have a seat.”
The hostess flashed her eyes over the laminated chart in her hand, and then inspected the room, turning her head so quickly that I half-expected it to snap off her neck and roll away.
“Come with me,” she fumed. We glided down the aisle and up a small staircase to a higher dining platform surrounding the center stage. I recognized co-workers sipping iced tea and chatting as we passed occupied tables, and a sudden but altogether needless fear came over me. Shit, I thought. Not with her. I knew the grim truth when my eyes settled on the hunched frame, to the multi-colored rhinestone ball cap, to the empty adjacent seat.
“Here you go, sir,” spouted the hostess, who sped off before I could argue. Ms. Fannabel, lonely at her two-person table, peered up at me and smiled.
“Care to join me, young man?” she asked, her rumpled hands quivering a little as she nestled her steaming black coffee. I smiled, and sat down. A waitress darted quickly past.
“Excuse me!” I nearly yelled. The waitress halted, and looked at me expectantly.
“I need a drink,” I pleaded. “Newcastle, if you have it.” The waitress flew off.
Ms. Fannabel was still smiling. Given her affinity for the Christian message, I had hoped my beer order would brand me a heathen slave to the devil drink in her eyes, and discourage her from engaging any unnecessary conversation. But she was unfazed.
“Have you been here before?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“What was the production?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Last year, it was Gone with the Wind. There was a Southern ball scene, and all the suitors came down and picked single ladies out of the crowd to dance with,” said Ms. Fannabel, smiling stupidly. I guessed that she was one of the lucky bachelorettes chosen, and wondered if it was for the audience’s amusement more so than for her own entertainment. It didn’t matter.
My Newcastle arrived, and I retreated into the deep amber and froth, selfishly hoping that my death by social awkwardness this night would be short and relatively painless. I tried to refrain from picturing Ms. Fannabel performing reverse cowgirl on her 40-year old man-mistress, and succeeded surprisingly with a fair bit of welcome luck. But I knew this terrifying image and others were landmines buried in my brain.
“Do you like museums?”
“What?” I asked, dribbling beer down my chin.
“I asked you if you like museums.” I could tell that Ms. Fannabel seemed quite enthusiastic about museums, and I knew - no matter what I blabbered out, short of “fuck you” - that I’d likely be setting off into a lengthy, tiresome conversation. No dodging this bullet, buddy. I told the truth.
“Yeah, actually. I like museums. Art museums, history museums. It’s always an impressive visit.” I tried to remain cordial, keeping my diction as intelligent as possible.
“I agree,” she started, her brow furling as she breathed deeply inward. “Although, I don’t think I’m going to visit the Muhammad Ali Center.”
“Why not?” I inquired. The Ali Center opening was big news to be sure, and it seemed every person I knew wanted to see it. I figured most of them really gave no shit about Muhammad Ali or his achievements - visiting his center was just something you had to do.
“I’m not going to visit a conscientious objector’s museum, for one.” Ms. Fannabel seemed to speak that line with all the fervent dedication I’d come to expect from someone who lived through World War Two. Such was the nature of the 1940s sociopolitical climate - a generation of American patriots fighting under the banner of truth, goodwill, and honor; so much so that the concept of war became for them nearly synonymous with doing the noble will of God.
“He wasn’t such a bad guy,” I argued. “Misguided, maybe. His intentions were good enough, and he wanted to make a worthy plea for peace. I think that’s something worth remembering.”
“He might very well have done more,” she responded. “If he had visited Asia and the Middle East, he could really have made a lasting impression.”
“Did you know that at their peak, the Black Muslims practiced the most effective means for getting people off the streets and sobered up?”
Ms. Fannabel, sensing some fresh nugget of information, perked up.
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, they would send members out into the neighborhoods to find friends who were down-and-out, on drugs, whatever; bring them in and make them go cold turkey for as long as they needed to, clean them up, shower them with brotherhood and declarations of worth, and then send them out to find and rescue their own friends from the streets as a service to Allah, and to the community. Like clockwork.”
“Well, isn’t that something,” she said, her eyes wide and smiling. Until that moment, she had possessed a wily intelligence about her - the kind of unspoken all-knowing that you couldn’t prove was there, but couldn’t disprove either. It was still there, of course, but there was something else - the excitement and wonder of learning something new, which perhaps at her age did not come so often anymore.
What followed was a lengthy but captivating exchange between Ms. Fannabel and me. I shared more things I’d learned in college, like how Wyatt Earp was never shot once in his life, or how in the 1920s, it was legal for men to beat their wives, so long as they used a stick no wider than their thumbs (which is where the phrase “rule of thumb” originates). She spoke at length about her experience with trade school, and how she outshined all other students. She was considered a natural at drafting and architectural study, but at the time, her gender prevented her from being considered for more than a few outstanding positions. Her evident skills, however, eventually garnered an interesting job offer. The United States government, or so she was told, wanted her to move to Washington D.C. to aid in the study and regulation of foreign maps - particularly Germany, France, and Japan - to be used by Allied forces overseas. Although she was honored to be considered for the job, she told me, she declined. Moving to the nation’s capital at twenty-three years old did not sound so appealing to her.
After many minutes of conversation, I admitted to having to use the restroom, and excused myself. I circled the dining room, past the chattering and gentle laughing of the guests - young and old, single and married, divorced, mothers and fathers, sons, daughters, friends. An entire symphony of social collaboration - the sound of talking heads making connections with each other, sharing ideas and experiences, passions, ambitions, loves. Or at least, that’s what I hoped.
I entered the restroom, where three men were performing various stages of the restroom process. The man at the urinal - young and stocky, likely a new father. The man washing his hands - middle-aged and neatly groomed. He wears a suit, but not because he must. The man drying his fingers carefully with a paper towel - grey and balding. He slumps somewhat, biting his upper lip repeatedly. There is a faded naval tattoo on his forearm.
In that instant, I wondered what the lives of these men were like. Were they lonely? Proud? Did they love someone? Did someone love them? Where had they been? Where were they going? Were they happy?
They say that we’re all just ants marching, and who am I to argue? Perhaps we are. Perhaps there is no purpose, no rhyme or reason for our brief, oblivious shuffle through life. We live for the day - working, slaving, searching, finding, losing, and hoping - and then, one day, we die. What legacy do we leave? How are we remembered? Perhaps we are just ants marching. Marching all different directions, all different speeds - alone, in pairs, in groups - all of us trying to make the biggest fuss as we scurry along. And magically, for all our differences, we end up together.
I exited the restroom and returned to my table. Ms. Fannabel was checking her watch - a 1940s era silver watch that still seemed to shine as it might have the day it was made.
“I believe the show will be starting any minute,” she said. I smiled, and nodded.
“Yes, I think you’re right.”
The dining room lights dimmed abruptly, so low that only the centerpiece candles at each table - and the slightly illuminated faces surrounding them - were visible.
END
