The bus pulled up after a few minutes and I flashed my pass, took a seat in the back of the bus, and focused on election returns from the primaries, and my book, Madeleine L’Engle’s reflections on beauty. I needed to get to the park as soon as possible to watch the kids play baseball. In the row to my right, I noticed a man with an enormous head; the size was impressive, larger than a size 8 and even more massive with long frizzy locks. It seemed completely eclipsed the person in the seat next to him.
He leaned in, two inches way from his seat mate, and unleashed what can only be described as a foul, relentless, profanity-laced diatribe. To describe it that way makes it seem somewhat understandable, like a ballplayer losing his temper after a tough loss in the playoffs. But this was loud, hate-filled, and downright demonic. “Shut up,” I said internally, “I just want to read my L’Engle and get to the game.”
The man, in his 20s, did not stop cursing, yelling, and physically dominating the unseen person in the seat next to him for the next 10 minutes. The entire bus was oppressed and angry. Patrons looked back at him and said that he was crazy, in Spanish, or motioned towards him. He finally leaned back, and I saw that he had been speaking to an African American woman with a youthful face and no front teeth. Amazingly, she was not in tears. In fact, she did not seem fazed, at least by outward appearance, by what he was saying. I wondered what to do. Should I confront him? Would this result in more abuse later for this poor woman? I prayed for peace. I wrestled with anger. How could she take this? "You don't have to be with this abusive loser," I thought. "You deserve so much more than this!" Suddenly, he raised his voice and shifted in his seat in an aggressive manner. I turned off the radio, took off my headphones, and prepared to grab his right arm if he tried to punch her.
"I will get off at the next stop and f--- you anyway. I don’t care about the HIV or nothin’,” he yelled. He assumed a less violent posture and I stared out the window, prayed for God's mercy, and tried to prevent myself from shouting at him. The yelling continued. The bus was dark, oppressive, even in the late afternoon sun. It was as grim as the streets of Bangkok when John and I saw a chubby young girl in glasses, maybe 12 years old, with a middle-aged European man without a care in the world. I exhaled and continued to pray. Behind the dysfunctional couple, a 50-year-old man them was serene, his baseball cap and mustache were locked in place. Finally, a large black man in a huge blue shirts aid, “Big Dawg, take it easy," from the back of the bus.
In predictable urban fashion, the dialogue escalated rapidly.
“What? She’s my lady!”
“So what, she’s a sister.”
“Are you telling me to stop talking to her? You don’t know what we’ve been through!”
“Talk to me like you talk to her, Dawg.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
“Make me.”
“Let’s go.”
The Samoan man stood up, pulled up his sagging jeans, and dropped his wallet. The man in the cap picked up the wallet and returned it. The Samoan paused for a second to consider saying thanks, but turned back to the aisle and said, “I’m gonna beat you Polynesian style, dawg.” For an instant, he reached behind his back with his right hand, towards his waistband. I’m casual, but he was less than a yard away and prepared to launch forward and grab his arm in case he pulled out a weapon. His arms were thrice the size of mine, but I knew that he would be taken by surprise.
The man in blue, a head taller than the yeller, gave a wry smile and said “I dare you.”
“Get off at the next stop, and I’ll show you a Chamoro-style beat down.”
"I double-dare you," he replied.
The woman pleaded with her boyfriend. “Don’t do this, you’ll just be back in jail!”
“I don’t care. I got stabbed 23 times in the yard, it don’t matter.”
The man glared at each other from five feet away. The Samoan man's eyes were wide, pupils dilated. He was high, crazy, probably both. In my memory, his face was contorted in the exaggerated battle lust of Japanese samurai paintings or like a rugby player performing the Haka before a match.
The bus parked at the next stop and the driver, a 60-year old man with a droopy expression, walked to the back. “Let’s just take it easy guys,” he said with arms spread. The wild-eyed man returned to his seat. He sat down and talked to his lady, quietly this time.. Placid man stared straight ahead. The man in blue answered his phone and said, “Nothing's happening, really,” and laughed.
Mercifully, after a few moments, it was my turn to get off the bus. I breathed deeply and tried to shift gears to cheer at a baseball game. It took me a long time before the perfect line for the situation came to me: “Peace. Be still.”
