The Exchange

Sheila squeezed herself into the seat next to Mary, one of the last on the bus. Their bottoms and thighs shared an expanse of flesh that Mary felt no coworker should have to share, but she was grateful to have a seat at least. People standing crowded around them, above the bench.

"It's your birthday, huh Mary?" Sheila asked.

"Shu' is," Mary replied. "Forty-seven, can you believe it?"

"Hell," Sheila agreed. "Time flies. You gonna do somethin'? Go out or somethin'?"

"Yeah. Dinner somewhere, but I dunno where. You know, a surprise."

"That's nice. Real nice."

The bus lurched to stop and a few people shuffled off. A homeless man boarded, loose and tattered, followed by a herd of commuters. The bus was crowded, but when he took his spot, hanging his hand on a bar above Mary, people gave him a wide berth. He stood, oblivious to his isolation, shaking his head erratically, as though he could jerk into place all the parts of his life that had come undone.

"Hey Mr. Bus Driver," called a teenager near the front. "Don't they clean these buses no more? Smells like piss here."

Sheila shook her head in disapproval. "So, James know it's your birthday today?" she asked Mary. "He should give you the afternoon off or something."

"I dunno," Mary answered. "I don't like to make a big deal."

"It's your birthday today?" the homeless man asked from above. Mary tried not to breathe through her nose.

"Yeah," she said.

"Really? Mine too. Today," he replied, his eyes lighting up. "December 15, 1963."

"Nah, you don't say. I'm just two years older than you - 'zactly. December 15, 1961."

The man nodded, and Mary wasn't sure he'd heard her. The bus leaped forward and then squealed to a stop, and he jostled back and forth. Then, suddenly, he reached into one of his many pockets.

"It's your birthday," he said. "You should have a present."

He reached out, long dirty fingernails and a cracked palm holding a small, porcelain figurine. It was cheap, probably made in China. A little teddy bear with a stocking cap.

"Oh, I can't take that," Mary said, embarrassed. She looked out the window, noting her stop was only a few blocks away.

"Hell you can. Watch." He dropped it above her hand and she caught it. "Happy Birthday."

"Well, wait, I should give you a present," she stumbled. She thought about it for a second. She didn't have any cash, and even if she did, that seemed crude. "You read?"

"Yeah I read. Course I read," the man said.

Mary nodded, and dug into the deep leather purse on her lap. She pulled out the romance novel she'd just finished.

"I liked this," she said. "Maybe you will too."

"For me?" the man said.

"Yeah, for you. Happy Birthday." Mary shoved the book at him. He took it cautiously.

The bus stopped, and Mary and Sheila wedged themselves out of their seats on the bench.

"Thanks lady," the man said as they left.

"Thank you," she replied. A deep sense of guilt settled in her stomach as she walked to her office building. She wanted to fix it, to fix him somehow. But all she had was a trashy novel.

A Snippet

This is from a story I recently told to pass the time during a car trip. Story probably isn't the right word, for that implies more coherence than it had, but I can't think of anything better. I was particularly fond of this part, so I'm capturing it here. Apologies if it doesn't make sense, but feel reassured that in context it wouldn't have made much more sense.

The two rabbit guards brought the chipmunk to a hollow log.

"Go on," they said, indicating for him to enter. "We stay here; your path lies ahead."

Nodding, the chipmunk straightened his knapsack and entered the log. The entry was overhung with leaves, and it quickly became dark inside. He inched his way forward. After a few steps, he collided with a mass of feathers.

"Excuse me!" harumphed the feathers.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see you," the chipmunk apologized.

"Indeed."

"I, um, am looking to pass through the log," the chipmunk offered.

"Are you? Well."

"I've been invited to see the Badger King."

"The Badger King? Yes, come along then."

The chipmunk followed the sound of feathers scraping against the log. They soon came upon some luminescent drawings upon the curved log walls. Glowing in strange yellow paint, they depicted a pheasant holding a goblet, turtles running on small strips of bark, squirrels balancing on tightropes and, most strangely, a crowd of animals, including fawns and tigers and beetles, gaping at an exalted badger.

"These are wonderful drawings," observed the chipmunk. In the light from the walls, he could see the form of his guide, a large pheasant.

"Why, ho, thank you," guffawed the pheasant in mock modesty. "I painted them myself. I am the keeper of this log shrine."

"Shrine?"

"Yes, of course."

"Where do you get the paint?"

"The fireflies. There is a basin at the top of the log, a stone bowl. The fireflies, in their frenzied devotion to my shrine, land there and, using a few pebbles strewn about, take their lives. Right there, in the basin. I use their sacrifice as paint."

"Oh," commented the chipmunk, at a loss. "That sounds, er, dedicated."