Eileen Loveman Daily Posting

I wrote this story in December of 2003.  I was astounded at the response, especially from the readers who were connected/related to the subject and had seen the story online.  It reminds me over and over just how closely connected we are. 

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When I was in my thirties and my children were still young, our house was on the bus line. It was a perfect arrangement. The woman who watched my babies came to the house at 7:00 a.m. I always felt better about this because I didn't have to wake them up and take them out of their warm beds so early in the morning. Any mother can attest these days how hard it is to get everyone going and playing beat the clock, beat the traffic, and trying not to beat ourselves up in the process. It made for a much more peaceful atmosphere to kiss them good bye in the early morning hours and let them sleep just alittle longer. My husband and I were happy with the arrangement.

Free of having to lug baby paraphenalia into a car and deposit crying faces at a dark building first thing in the morning, I was able to grab a quick cup of coffee before I went outside to wait for the bus. I was especially fortunate in the winter time, because I could see the bus coming from my enclosed front porch. Spying it down the street, I could down the last drops of my drink and run out the door.

It was a routine that I was able to keep for close to five years. The bus drivers rarely changed routes and so they became accustomed to my rhythms. There were times they would even lay on the horn if I wasn't standing out there. It was comforting to hear when I was home sick in bed (which was rare) and I let them know once I was on the mend. Any planned vacation time had to include informing them as well. It was a nice feeling to know I was missed.

As with the routine of going to work everyday, recognizing the same familiar faces sitting on the bus was also a comfort. Everyone seemed to sit in the same seat everyday, and newcomers were acknowledged and welcomed into the fold. My seat was on the left, about six rows back, and always on the aisle. My fellow seat buddy was already there, having gotten on about four stops ahead of me.

He was an older man, about 55 years old at that time. Dressed in a suit, he always held his brief case on his lap, like a table. His face was kind, his smile shy.

He always read paperback novels, most often of the likes of John Grisham, or "Red October" and spy genre. There wasn't much conversation between us, except to say good morning or how are you today. That was all right with me, I was usually mentally preparing myself for the onslaught of paperwork connected with a trial I was working on with the attorney of record that year, or going over a shopping list in my head. It was an arrangement that suited us both, falling into the routine of our mornings.

As the years went by, I did find out little bits of information from time to time. He was a supervisor at the telephone company. He wasn't very happy there, said it was very stressful and was looking forward to retirement, even though it was still ten years away. I would show him pictures of my kids, mostly at holidays. He would just smile and put his head back in the book when things started to get too personal.

One spring morning it dawned on me that my bus buddy hadn't been to work in a few days. I wanted to ask the bus driver if he had seen him, but a shocking realization hit me. I never knew his name. He was just the guy with the book that sat with me, a comforting presence like a warm blanket on a cold morning.

Thoughts flew in my head. Was he transferred? Did he finally quit? Fired?

Did the stress finally kill him?

A year went by, and I didn't see my bus buddy. I thought perhaps the latter was true, because I thought I would have seen him downtown at lunchtimes. I never saw him.

My dream of moving off the bus line came to fruition, and we were able to move to the big house, same house I would have to give up many years later. Moving to the big house meant having a car, buying more furniture, having less time. My life wasn't as simple as when all I had to do was kiss my babies goodbye in the morning. I stopped taking the bus and could drive them to school. Another routine had begun. Several years went by. As I drove to work and passed by the old bus stop, I thought I would see flashes of him, but could never be sure.

As is the tradition in my neighborhood, there are summer block parties. The biggest one is organized in August by a few energetic neighbors. Collection of funds and picinic tables ends with a September celebration. There are recipe contests, volleyball games on front lawns, horse shoe tournaments in backyards, and music blaring everywhere. Everyone brings a dish to pass, and it is a wonderful time. I have very dear memories of that time, a closeness still with most of the neighbors even though I have moved again.

I was walking toward the gathering place for all the food, when I spied an older couple walking towards me, bowl of potato salad in hand. My eyes hadn't quite focused on the man and woman, but there was something about the man's demeanor that was familiar to me, a way he held his head. He was looking at me intently. As we walked closer towards each other, my eyes popped and my heart jumped! It was him, my bus buddy! He was running towards me now, his wife and my husband watching, staring in disbelief. We were laughing and yelling "Its you! It's you!"

Like a scene from a movie, he laid his bowl of potato salad on the ground and scooped me up in his arms, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

"I thought you were dead!" was the first thing that sprang from my mouth.

"Nope" he smiled. "Just retired. I came into work one day and they had handed me my pink slip. I was so mortified that I couldn't tell you that last afternoon we were sitting together. But how wonderful to see you again!"

After witnessing the heartfelt reunion, introductions were made to our respective spouses who were as curious as the other on lookers of the scene. We updated everyone of our history together and how sweet it was to see each other again.

He lived three houses down from me and I never knew it.

Sadly, he died unexpectedly three years later, the victim of a weak heart. At his funeral, a grieving wife and mother of five adult children would recount how she came home one afternoon to see him with his head laid down on his desk, as if napping. She told us about his life, how he was a friend to all, a quiet engager.

The church was filled to the brim at his funeral as his kindness was legendary. It was at that time I finally learned his full name.

His name was John. But to me, he will always be my bus buddy.

© 2003 Eileen Loveman