There had been an accident at Ventura and Woodman shortly before I’d arrived to catch the 158 South. 

Passing traffic crunched and dragged the broken pieces of high-impact plastic that remained along the asphalt, and a damaged vehicle had pulled off into the parking lot of the furniture store on the corner.  Its four passengers had apparently escaped unharmed, and all were conversing in varying degrees of intensity on their cell phones.  I heard one say ‘hit and run’ as I walked on the few feet to the bus stop, where I waited.

The gaggle of middle-aged Latina domestics who rode the bus were all there as usual, chattering about the accident some of them had witnessed minutes earlier.  Standing apart from them was an unfamiliar face - a balding Armenian in his 30s, wearing sunglasses and a Members Only leather jacket.  A small plastic grocery bag hung from one hand, and he cradled a dozen white roses wrapped in cellophane in his arm.

As the bus pulled around, the small Mexican lady who got off near the mall every day came over to say hello.  She loved to chat, and had an easygoing personality that drew out a kind of warm comfortable feeling that reminded me of childhood; there was something about her that was instantly lovable.  From our conversations, I knew she had daughters, and she was sure to make an excellent grandmother.

We boarded and the Armenian guy sat next to her, across from me.  I was rummaging through the papers in my bag when she called out to get my attention.  I looked up to see the Armenian wearing a broad smile as his hand hung in the air, waiting for me to complete a hi-five.  I did, wondering if I knew him from somewhere or if he was just crazy.  After a minute I realized I didn’t know him.

“What happened back there?”  The grandmother asked me.

“An accident,” I told her.  “I didn’t see it.”

She asked the Armenian, and he responded in an accented voice.

“The Hispanic guy fell down, and then they held him down and he died.”

“What?!?” She asked, aghast.

“They killed him,” he said simply.  “They killed him because he was a nice guy.”

“Who?”  She asked him.

“Those guys,” he said, pointing out the front windshield.  I leaned forward to look, but there was nothing to see but the street and passing cars.  “He was in the holding cell and he wanted to go home, and he fell.  They held him down and killed him.  In front of me and this other guy.”

“Oh, I see,” she said.

“Did you see the car accident?”  I asked him.

“Hey, I don’t care about the cars, buddy,” he stated simply, offering a pleasant smile.

“What is your family’s nationality?”  She asked him, changing the subject.

“Armenian.”

“My boss is from your country.  But he was born in New York.  He’s a very nice person.”  She said.

“I like him too,” he said agreeably.  He took out a can of Chef Boyardee from the plastic bag he was carrying and showed it to her.

“Spaghetti,” she said.

“Ooh, si señora.  Spaghetti is very famous.  I ate a whole big plate of it before,” he said.  “Would you like a rose?”

“Sure,” she said. 

He pulled a white rose from the bunch and handed it to her.  He asked the ladies seated behind her if they would like some also.  They all did, and they giggled like schoolgirls as he presented the flowers to them.

“Is this for Mother’s Day?”  One of them asked.

He appeared confused, so the lovable grandmother rephrased it for him with less of a question in her voice.

“These are for Mother’s Day,” she said, as though confirming it.  He shrugged and agreed they were for Mother’s Day.

He looked at me.  “Do you want one?” 

The ladies tittered, but his offer was sincere, so I smiled and took it in that spirit - though I declined the flower.

“Are you happy?”  He asked me.  I told him I was.  “He is such a handsome guy,” he said to the women, who giggled again.

“This is number one best flower,” he told them.  “I don’t like red rose.”

Another middle-aged Latina boarded and as she dug for her pass, he simply handed her a rose.  She was pleasantly surprised.

“Oh!  Thank you!”  She said.

He pulled another from the bunch and handed it to her.

“That one is for her,” he said, indicating the bus driver.  She thanked him also.

“That’s very sweet,” the driver said.

“I have to save at least one for my girlfriend,” he explained, “or she will be mad at me.”

At their stop, the group of ladies got up to leave.

“Thank you for the flowers,” they said in uneven unison, still giggling girlishly.  His face lit up, pleased to receive so much easy goodwill.

He looked at me and reached into his bag to show me the can of pasta.  He pointed to the picture on the front.

“We can take these out,” he said, indicating the meatballs, “and it will be good.”

“Sure.”

“You know where you can get the best spaghetti?  Domingo’s.”  He slurred a little.

“Domino’s?”

“Domingo’s.  It’s on Ventura Boulevard.  You know how much a plate of spaghetti costs you?”

“How much?”

“Free.”  He said triumphantly.  “Ask for Tony.  Tell him Jerry told you.  He’ll give you a big plate of spaghetti – free.  You try to give him money and he’ll knock you out, probably.

“You know where I am from?”  He asked me.  I shook my head.  He reached into his inside jacket pocket and drew out a half-empty quart bottle of Heineken, performed a slightly exaggerated double-take at the sight of it, then replaced it inside his coat.  He went into his other pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes with Arabic lettering and a small picture of an ancient columned building on the box.

“This is where I am from,” he told me, holding the cigarettes out in front of him toward me.

“Where is that?”

“Farther than Rome,” he said solemnly.  “I am not lying.”

He put the cigarettes away and took out the beer again, drinking much of what was left in a long swallow.  As he did, I noticed a plastic band on his wrist with his name printed on it.  It was the kind one might receive at a jail, or from a hospital.

He left a small amount in the bottle and tucked it away into his jacket.  He sat back in his seat and his fingers searched behind him for the cord to signal his stop.  It took him a few tries to catch the wire and actually ring the bell.  The bus slowed to stop and he rose to head out.

“Take care,” I told him.  He turned around as if he had forgotten something and came back to me, holding up a hand.  We hi-fived goodbye.

From our seats, the driver and I watched him stumble off to wherever it was he was headed.

“That could have gone a bunch of ways,” I told her.

“Yes it could have,” she agreed.  “But he was peaceful.”

copyright,  © 2006 Wyatt Doyle

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