There was a disturbance at the front of the bus when the ass of a near-blind elderly lady narrowly avoided collision with a shoulder bag belonging to a particularly annoying passenger. He wouldn't move it off the seat, and when her aged rear inadvertently grazed his bag, he became incensed, bellowing in outrage. Shocked by the sudden explosion, the old lady jumped a mile. 

The man doing the yelling was a regular on the route. On the losing side of his fifties, he was fat, gray, bearded and sloppy, and usually looked like he could use a wash. His stomach strained against his shirt buttons, and the black velvet of his yarmulke was heavily flecked with dandruff. 

Nevertheless, he was an unrepentant snob. He spoke with a measured, skeptical delivery that could pass for condescending. Or at best, merely tolerant. Together with his Yiddish inflection, much of what he said ended up coming across as questions posed rhetorically. This was fitting, since he regularly sought to engage drivers and fellow riders in intellectual argument, regardless of whether they shared his inclination for it. His favorite occupation was debate with strangers for its own sake. Sometimes they bit. Mostly he fished. 

But this was no an academic discussion, and the driver would not sit still for it. 

“You have to share your seat,” the driver chastened. A black man in his forties, he was a reasonable fellow, and slow to anger. Though neither was a requirement of his profession, they were useful traits to have in it. He paused, choosing his words carefully. 

“You can’t be yelling at people. That’s not how we do it here in America.” Noticing the other man's accent, he mistook him for a recent arrival. 

“What do you know about America?” The other man snapped in response, thumbing a yellowed paperback edition of Euripides.  

Their exchange played out less like a brewing argument and more like a series of challenges to one another, gauntlets being thrown down. There was no fury in their voices, only pride and a firm resolve to have the last word, to be the one to deliver the inarguable summation. Neither man had a hasty nature, and both felt this was one they should win. Their minor duel spooled out slowly. 

It might have ended there. It was early morning, a time most people don’t even feel like talking, let alone arguing. The driver thought a moment. Leading with his chin, he raised his face to the rear-view mirror. 

“America,” he called out in a steady, front-of-the-class voice, “is one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. For all," he concluded, "…not just you.” 

“What is that?” 

“You asked me what is America,” the driver replied, pleased he'd thought to use the Pledge of Allegiance. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

His opponent sniffed.

“You think that’s what America is? It is easy to fool you, I see,” he purred, eyes never leaving his reading. “I have a bridge you can buy.” 

The bus continued along the route, and we all rode on.
 

copyright,  © 2007 Wyatt Doyle

for information on Wyatt Doyle's collaboration with Stanley Jason Zappa, STOP REQUESTED, click here.