No longer the observer

By Amy

Last month, while working out with my personal trainer (I love saying that), I broke a bone in my right foot, the fifth metatarsal--the bone between my ankle and little toe. Since then, I have been wearing this big, black orthopedic boot that hits me right below the knee and is square-shaped and oversized around the foot. I wish I had a matching boot for my left foot, then I would wear miniskirts and stomp around like a bad-ass Bride of Frankenstein.

But instead, being off-balance, I walk with a limp, and if I remain standing long enough, my foot begins to ache. The doctor gave me Vicodin for the pain, but that seems excessive, like blasting at flies with a shotgun. 

Last week I was standing at my usual bus stop on MLK on my way to work. The bus didn't seem to be coming anytime soon, and my foot was starting to ache, so I walked the few blocks south to the covered bus shelter, which has a bench with two seats. On the way to the shelter I passed the Friends of Trees house with its unwelcoming, overgrown yard; the office of the mysterious accountant G.A. Sosanya; and the bright yellow Battery-X-Change, where, at least according to their sign, they will swap your dead car battery for a new one ad infinitum.

An overweight white guy in a baseball cap and T-shirt, I'd say in his late 50s, was standing near the shelter. As he watched me lumber toward him in my oversize boot, he set his cup of coffe on one the bench seats, so I was forced to take the other one, despite having the sensation that this man was standing too close, invading my personal space. But I get that feeling every time I share the shelter with another stranger--it's a tight fit.

As soon as I sat down, I pulled a book out of my purse and began reading, which in mass-transit commuter language means Do Not Fuck With Me.

The big man looked down at me. "Tell me," he said, "do you know if Lake Grove is near Lake Oswego?"

"I don't know," I said. I really didn't know. I went back to my book. Get a clue, buddy, I thought.

The man paced back and forth in front of me for about three minutes, humming a happy and ridiculous tune over and over, as if to fill the silence between us. I looked down the street for the telltale white rectangle of the bus with its black sign and comforting orange letters. It wasn't coming.

Another man stepped into the shelter. 

"It's not easy being green!" he yelled. 

He was chunky, black and around 50 years old, wearing a baseball cap, polo shirt and pristine white sneakers that glowed like they just came out of the box.

"Hey, isn't that from Kermit the Frog?" Humming Man asked.

"I am an American Negro," the black man yelled, and then began singing another loud song. He was so close enough to me that I could smell the beer on his breath.

I put my book face-down on the bench. "Hey, guys," I said. "I have a broken foot and it hurts, and I just want to sit here and be left in peace without both of you in my face."

The black man continued to sing, loudly. I got angrier. 

"Look," I said to him. "I'll give you a dollar if you just be quiet until the bus comes." I dug my wallet out from my purse and opened it. Two fives and a ten.

"It's your lucky day," I said. "The smallest I have is a five." I gave him the bill. 

The man wouldn't stop talking, confirming my suspicion that he was not of the ilk that could be persuaded with mere money.

"I am an American Negro," he shouted. "What are you?" he asked me.

"I'm white."

"Yes, but what are you?" he asked.

"German, I guess," I said.

"Hey, I'm German too," the white guy said. 

Right then the bus pulled up, and the black man was mumbling to himself about how he was "going to buy a hamburger and beer with my $5." He never did board the bus.