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Lessons on the RTD

Contributed by: Emma Gannon on 1/15/2007

When I was in middle school I rode the RTD bus from school every day. The headaches and the long rides weren't always a comfort once my classes were over and all I had to think about were my personal torments and a large bottle of Excedrin waiting for me at home.

Headaches, a city bus and how everything seemed to change when I attended Dunstan: those seemed to be the main elements of that first year. Those endless bus rides were the time for me to face the events that had unfolded during the day, to anticipate what would happen tomorrow, and to wonder if all of this was supposed to fit together this way. The steady roar that slowly increased as the bus picked up speed sometimes helped to block out my thoughts and slur them into one, mesmerizing twist of words that I would make sense of later, yet they would always come back.

I always liked to stare at the other bus riders, wondering if any of them were as angry, self-pitying, or whatever offhand mood I was in, as I was. But they would just look straight ahead, or read something: stone-cold statues that moved only to pull the rope and get off the bus to pursue their destination, if they had one. There were always a variety of different types of people on the bus. Old women wearing baggy slacks and satisfied smiles, men in business suits who looked too tired to be under the age of thirty, even though I'm sure many were. And of course teenagers were plentiful on those wearisome afternoons, girls with high ponytails and shirts that had some kind of snide or boastful remark on them, guys with thick hair and thick heads that never seemed to run out of gum, and of course, all of the introverted loners that sat in the seat farthest away from everyone, never revealing if they were sad, happy or if this was just another day.

And there were always the people who walked onto the bus and smiled at everyone, to the annoyance of several people. I too used to avoid eye contact with anyone who looked particularly garrulous, especially on the days controlled by a pounding right between my eyebrows, like a golf ball had been injected into my brain overnight and was slowly swelling there, never wanting to leave. There was that rank, gummy taste in my mouth that I would have to savagely brush away that night, and any strong smell, like a perfume that a particularly prosperous woman seemed to have bathed in, would make that golf ball grow an extra size, deepening my misery. But on a gray, drizzling afternoon when the trees stood stock still outside my the window and the entire street seemed glazed with a certain hopelessness, a sixty-something man with graying hair and smooth brown skin stretched over his many years, sat in the seat in front of me and noticed my violin.

"Viola?" He asked, smiling at me.

Oh, God, I thought, then answered good-naturedly, "Um, the violin."

"Wonderful! How long have you been playing?"

"About four years."

"I'm sure you're a great player." He was beaming at me beneath a green cap, his warm eyes whose pupils completely blended with his irises to paint his as a dark coffee gaze, surprisingly mild and down to earth.

"Yeah." I looked straight into those eyes. "I guess." Our conversation kept up for awhile like this, polite small talk that eventually led to me describing middle school. Trying to kept things impersonal, I smiled and told him about my classes, friends, and how I hoped that my violin could get me a scholarship in high school, because my mother and I didn't have a lot of extra money. To my surprise, he seemed oddly concerned for a total stranger. "What's your name?" He asked me.

"Emma."

"And your mother's?"

"Um, Cathy."

"Could I take your hand?" He stretched out a faded yet strong hand with a white palm and I took it, amazed at the warmth and soundness of his sixty-year-old grip.

"Can I pray with you?" He asked, and I, dumbfounded, could only nod. "Our Lord Jesus, please hear me when I ask you to take special care of this sweet little girl, and help her and her dear mother through all of their hard times and guide them when they are lost." His prayer eventually softened to a point where I was unable to decipher his words, but when he had finished and looked at me with his coffee eyes I knew he was genuinely convinced that my mother and I would be okay. When his hands released mine he pulled the rope, ready to leave for his own destination. "I will pray for you and your mother, Emma. May God be with you." He gave me one last smile that I couldn't help but return.

In middle school I rode the bus from school every day and had headaches. Everything was turned upside down when my best friends began to act like I didn't matter and the subjects I was usually so good at were challenging me to a degree that made me avoid the piece of paper in the front of the room, which listed the grades. In middle school, I met a man, who showed me that the world will never run out of compassionate people who think everyone deserves a bit of their attention. In middle school, on that crazy day when the rain seemed to confirm my enlightenment, I learned that people were usually the cause of all my problems, and were usually the solution.



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Showing 1-3 of 3 comments
Submitted By: Michael Gallagher
posted on 1/20/2007 @ 6:13:45 PM
(Not Rated)
Amazing story Emma. Sometimes there are those completely compassionate people. Bravisimo.
[Report as objectionable]
Submitted By: Courtney Erker
posted on 1/16/2007 @ 4:05:07 PM
Rated Story
This is great, Emma- I loved every sentence! Good job!
[Report as objectionable]
Submitted By: Erin Feese
posted on 1/16/2007 @ 9:14:26 AM
Rated Story
Nice story, Emma -- thanks for sharing.
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Showing 1-3 of 3 comments
CONTRIBUTOR INFORMATION

Emma Gannon

Lakewood , CO

Emma Gannon has posted 1 story and 0 comments since joining on 12/2/2006. Emma Gannon 's average story rating is 5.
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