The night was slowly dying. After a long walk I found the right bus stop to get back to the hostel for the night. There, the tall buses swept past formidably close to the edge of the road, so close you could almost feel the cold on the Plexiglas, the breath of your darkened reflection.
The bar I was coming from had at some point been a church. I was unaware of the reason it had been converted but I remember thinking about faith, about endurance, about how seemingly nothing ends up how it begins. I thought about futility, about premeditated futility. I thought mostly about failure.
I walked to the back row of the bus and sat against the window. The man sitting in front of me turned around and smiled. He must have been in his late 20's. A dark red splattered violently on the whites of his eyes, yet his pupils glistened innocently like a child's.
"Bus at night is free," he said with a complacent smile "and I can drink here too." Having said this, he pulled out a half-empty glass of beer from inside his shirt and showed it to me, careful not to place it in sight of the driver's mirror. His immediate honesty did not bother me but initially amused me.
He told me he was from Liberia. He had just come back from Tokyo, where he had gone to visit his girlfriend. I wondered what had landed him here, what role this place had in his triangular travel.
"I came here for woman. She was my teacher, in Liberia," he said with a chuckle, looking down at the bulge his glass made under his shirt. "She was really in love with me, man." His story began to intrigue me more. I asked about the teacher but he would only respond vaguely and ambiguously. The only thing I knew was that she was not the woman in Tokyo and that she somehow had splayed that red on his eyes. They looked like a Pollock painting, more sullen.
He talked about his family. His father had gone blind at the age of 12 and of his life after that I only know that he had two sons, that he endured. His brother (i.e. the brother of the man on the bus) was still with him and helped him move from place to place to maintain his current relationship with the absent Japanese woman. For this the man exuded shameful gratitude, appearing embarrassed by his own lack of independence.
"I am a teacher now," he then said. He became silent, staring out into the street as it passed us, his eyes not focusing on anything, motionless, as if focused on the glass and not the muted exterior of this (his) momentary self-awareness.
At my stop I got up and the man again smiled at me.
"No hard feelings, man," he said, calmly, as if speaking to someone else.
The bus drove off, its headlights forming translucent triangles in the night's visible darkness.
I walked to the back row of the bus and sat against the window. The man sitting in front of me turned around and smiled. He must have been in his late 20's. A dark red splattered violently on the whites of his eyes, yet his pupils glistened innocently like a child's.
"Bus at night is free," he said with a complacent smile "and I can drink here too." Having said this, he pulled out a half-empty glass of beer from inside his shirt and showed it to me, careful not to place it in sight of the driver's mirror. His immediate honesty did not bother me but initially amused me.
He told me he was from Liberia. He had just come back from Tokyo, where he had gone to visit his girlfriend. I wondered what had landed him here, what role this place had in his triangular travel.
"I came here for woman. She was my teacher, in Liberia," he said with a chuckle, looking down at the bulge his glass made under his shirt. "She was really in love with me, man." His story began to intrigue me more. I asked about the teacher but he would only respond vaguely and ambiguously. The only thing I knew was that she was not the woman in Tokyo and that she somehow had splayed that red on his eyes. They looked like a Pollock painting, more sullen.
He talked about his family. His father had gone blind at the age of 12 and of his life after that I only know that he had two sons, that he endured. His brother (i.e. the brother of the man on the bus) was still with him and helped him move from place to place to maintain his current relationship with the absent Japanese woman. For this the man exuded shameful gratitude, appearing embarrassed by his own lack of independence.
"I am a teacher now," he then said. He became silent, staring out into the street as it passed us, his eyes not focusing on anything, motionless, as if focused on the glass and not the muted exterior of this (his) momentary self-awareness.
At my stop I got up and the man again smiled at me.
"No hard feelings, man," he said, calmly, as if speaking to someone else.
The bus drove off, its headlights forming translucent triangles in the night's visible darkness.
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