Bus Stop

Two men sat on a bus stop bench in the afternoon sun. On the street, cars went by, they aren’t noticed by the men, and the men aren’t noticed by the cars’ drivers.

The first man shifted in position on the bench. As he does so, the orange face of a lawyer with shiny black hair can be seen printed on its back. When the man on the right moves in search of comfort, sections of a telephone number followed by Injured? are hinted at but never quite revealed.

The man on right is youngish, his hair nearly as greasy looking as the lawyer that is on the bus bench behind him. An impossibly thin moustache frowns under his nose. Somehow it looks haughty. His shirt promotes a band that you aren’t cool enough to have heard about. The lines of suspenders worn too loose to serve a purpose, frame his chest. His jeans are nearly as skinny as he is. His shined boots, that look like they’ve never been worn through any adversity, cap off this character. His name is Abe.

The man on the left, who goes by Art, is a solid 20 years older. His hair officially needed cut last week and has silvered prematurely. He wore a plain white button up that looks like a pair of old kitchen curtains that have seen too much sun. In much the same way, his black jeans have faded to grey from years of washing. Remarkably, the men don’t know it, but they have on the same brand of boot. His aren’t shined; they aren’t even tied. Overall he doesn’t appear gruff, but he’s not smiling either. Art isn’t speaking to Abe, but his gaze wonders in his direction, just enough to not be questioned about his intentions.

More cars passed, as did time. The men waited, the only thing between them, that semi-uncomfortable silence that sometimes squeezes between two strangers in public.

Abe’s eyes were locked onto the screen of his phone. By the intense gaze he is holding, one might think worlds were dying at his fingertips. Art’s gaze swings to Abe. Art’s mouth opens, but claps shut before speaking.

Abe intuited Art’s gaze and turns slightly to his left. As he does this, Art catches a tattoo on his forearm.

Art felt it rising in his throat but he can’t stop it. “Just what the hell is that?”

Art seemed shocked the phrase actually escaped, but he does not blush. Abe’s face, however glowed as if he’s been slapped. Unable to speak, Abe’s mouth only gaped.

                Another stream of cars passed on the street before them.

                “Jesus Christ man ever heard of tact?”

                Quickly, Art retorted, “Yes, but I gave that up years ago.”

                Abe didn’t seem amused. On the contrary, Art seemed pleased, but not pleased enough to laugh aloud.

                Several moments of silence passed yet again. These moments were only tense for Abe.

                “Hey I’m sorry man. You don’t have answer that. Truth is I just was bored and wanted to chit-chat. Didn’t know how to say so.”

                Abe studied Art, trying to see if his eyes were sincere. After a brief deliberation he opened the door to more talk. Abe’s body relaxed a bit, as he said, “Nah it’s cool man. I kinda figured that. I was trying to avoid you.”

                “You’re talented. Seems you’ve had some practice at that.” Art smiled.

                “Ya sorry.” Abe was suddenly more at ease. “I tend to avoid interacting with people I don’t know.”

A woman walking a black lab strolled behind them on the sidewalk. She wore a mini skirt and a low cut top; cleavage had spilled out of the front of her shirt. They both looked (casually) and when she was out of view neither strained to keep looking, but they did continue to look from their peripheral vision.

Art and Abe shared a laugh.

“Don’t break your neck or anything.” Art said.

Abe laughed, “You neither.”

Silence took hold for a few minutes. Abe began to squirm, and reluctantly posed a question. “Ok, let’s say we chat. We’ll keep it superficial, just until the bus gets here.”

Art nodded.

“What’s your story?” he asked, but before Abe could answer, he began speaking again. “The short version ya know.” He took out his cell phone and glanced at the time.

“Right, superficial, short. Got it.” Art couldn’t help but roll his eyes, “Thought you might say that.”

Abe, “Go ahead then.” He gestured his left hand in a circle with his index finger.

“Well I’m a lot like you.”

Abe raised an eyebrow. “Is that a fact?”

“It’s a fact alright. But I’m a great deal more patient, even-toned and caring.”

Laughing, Abe asked, “And just how is it you’ve come to know this?”

“Cause I am you Abe. Or should I say: Abraham Richard Talcomb, or Art for short. Just for the sake of keeping the conversation straight.” Art looked in the eyes of Abe; saw the confusion, the disbelief.

“Great, you learned my name somehow…” An unconvincing chortle from Abe, “Alright see, this is why I don’t talk to people. They’re fuckin’ nuts, and I already got--”

“Enough crazy in my life?” Art offered. “That’s what you were going to say wasn’t it? You say it often.”

“Fairly easy to predict. Think I heard it in a movie once.” Abe’s eyes became slits. “What’s your angle pal?”

“No angle, I’m just here as a warning. Trying to save us both from some heartache, and yourself. And a lot of wasted time- more so that than anything.”

Abe perked up, “Alright psycho, I’ll play along but let me recap; you are from a future where time travel is possible. But rather than, I dunno killin’ Hitler or something…you decided to visit me-your younger self- in order to save us time?”

“Not time travel kiddo. Hallucination. Remember what you did before this?”

Abe nodded, but his eyes were distant, vague vacuums. “Acid…” he seemed to be recalling, but didn’t recount the events to his companion on the bus bench.

“Bingo.” Art smiled as wide as he could. “And no need to share the events. I’m just a projection from that noggin of yours. I don’t need the details. In fact, me personally, I don’t know if you are actually even waiting for a bus. As far as I know we are solely in the landscape of your mind. And if that is true, the cleavage on the dog walker was over-the-top juvenile.”

“You looked too.” Abe remarked.

“You made me.”

“Well shit.” Abe was cowed, at least for now. “Ok then. Still, time is of the essence, even if you’re renting space in my brain. Can you go ahead and deliver my ominous Ghost of Christmas Past forewarning?”

Sighing, Art placed an ethereal hand on Abe’s shoulder, “See that’s just it. You’re too impatient. What’s the rush? For all you know you passed out and pissed yourself before you started having this vision.”

“Why would I piss myself from doing acid?”

“Shut up. I have 3 things I’m going to tell you. First off; you need to slow down. Everything is not on a timer. When’s the last time you actually enjoyed yourself?”

“I went on vacation last week.” Abe immediately regretted the example.

“San Diego, right? One of the most relaxing and laid back cities in the country. You worried about going back to work the whole time. Deadlines haunting you even when you’re away…”

Abe appeared deflated, but managed a nod. Thinking about it made him feel strange and ashamed. But it made him listen as well. As he did a large truck barreled by on the street before them. Green letters on the truck read; Honest Abe’s Moving & Storage. Beneath the words was a cartoonish figure of Abe himself, complete with caricatured muscles and coveralls. 

“Second; treat people well. I would say treat them how you want to be treated, but it’s obvious you don’t really care about that since you wall yourself off from most everyone.”

“In my defense, people are complicated.”

“You see? You said that as if you, yourself aren’t human!”

Abe conceded, “I see your point.”

“Great, glad I’m getting through to you. I can tell from the look on your face, you understand what I’ve said, but that’s not the hard part. The tough piece is figuring out how to change, and then putting that change into practice. Every. Damn. Day.” Art grabbed both of Abe’s hands and knelt in front of him.

Abe felt like Art was staring directly into his soul. “I can do it.” He began to sob lightly, still trying to save face, even in a hallucination, with an imagined version of himself no less.

“Lastly, and most important- because I can already see the self-doubt in your eyes- you need to understand: People can change for the better!”

“What if I don’t want to change?” whined Abe.

Disappointed, Art shook his head, “You’re having a conversation with a phantom version of yourself; tell me your subconscious isn’t nudging you towards a little self improvement?”

Abe only nodded briefly. “Alright, ok. You got me. I’m guilty of being a self-centered asshole.” Abe thought a bit more, “Which also stands to reason why I’d choose to talk this out with myself. Classic me.” Abe turned back to Art, “Anything else?”

“Ya, and this one’s a freebie: lay off the acid.” Art smiled.

Abe watched as Art’s form dissipated in a ghostly manner.

Left alone in his surroundings, Abe stood. Glancing back at the bus bench he now noticed the lawyer’s face on the bench was his own as well, followed by his phone number. “Man I am really self absorbed...”