Relieved, I read the sign aloud. “Use trash can for paper towels and feminine products. Do not flush.”
“You notice those last three words?” He sticks the cigarette out the window, taps off the ashes, and takes another puff. “They big ’n’ bold, ain’t they? So. I’m forced to ask . . . you blind?”
In the movie of my life, I flick that cigarette out of his mouth and educate him on the effects of secondhand smoke. Also, how to be nice. Carl is played by Samuel L. Jackson, and I, of course, am portrayed by Madam Kate Winslet.
Okay, Zooey Deschanel, then.
Fine. A young Ellen Page.
“I’m not blind,” I say.
He nods, takes one last drag, and tosses the stub out the window, thus confirming my suspicions: not all Carls are created equal.
After stuffing the mops into a pygmy closet, he leaves me alone in the bathroom.
I stare at my face in the tiny mirror and wish a thousand things. I wish we’d never left Ashland. I wish Mom wasn’t sick. I wish we hadn’t gone to Denny’s that day. I wish Kathy would jump off a cliff. I wish I hadn’t thrown away those letters. I wish I hadn’t squandered my proof. I wish I still had a tangible I-don’t-know-what . . . thing.
I wish wishing were enough, but it’s not.
Sometimes you need a thing.
7
A Metamorphosis Begun
“MIND IF I sit here?”
A familiar smile shines down on me, sending my epiglottis into orbit. And like that, Poncho Man sits in Arlene’s spot. My Arlene. He leans over, removes a pair of penny loafers—with actual pennies tucked in the front flaps—and slides them under his chair. (Next to my Arlene’s purse.) Turning to me with jack-in-the-box enthusiasm, he offers a hand.
“I never properly introduced myself,” he says. “I’m Joe.”
Think quick, Malone. I point to my right ear and shake my head. “I’m deaf.”
He drops his hand, but his smile goes nowhere. “We talked. In Jackson.”
The old Malone stick-to-itiveness kicks in; I turn to look out the window, pretending not to have heard.
The rest of the passengers file into their seats, the engine rumbles to life, and the bus slowly gains momentum. Wherever Arlene ended up sitting, she’ll be getting a purse delivery pronto. I might just camp out in the aisle next to her.
“I’ve been watching you,” says Poncho Man.
If there are four creepier words in the English language, color me a monkey’s uncle.
I watch the slowly passing trees out the window. You can’t hear him, Mary. You’re deaf and you can’t hear him.
“Chitchatting with the old lady and the bus driver,” he continues.
If there were sand, I would bury my head in it.
“I know you can hear me.”
If there were wet concrete, I would bury his head in it.
“Antoine,” I whisper, still looking out the window.
“What’s that?”
“My name.” I turn to look at him. I want to see that phony smile wiped off his face. “It’s Antoine.”
Poncho Man (I will not call him Joe) does not relinquish his grin. In fact, it’s wider than ever. “Not a very good liar, are you?” he says.
“Better than you, I bet.”
He sighs, sits back, and pulls a book out of his poncho. I didn’t even know ponchos had pockets. “That’s doubtful.”
“Oh yeah, why’s that?”
“Because I’m an attorney.”
While I look for his off switch, he goes on and on about his practice in southern Louisiana, which he runs out of a small condo, one he shares with his ex-secretary, now wife, and blah, blah, blah, blah, shoot me now.
“You wanna hear about my latest case?”
I open my mouth into a wide, fake yawn, look directly at him, and blink slowly.
“A while back,” he starts, “one of our biggest clients, you may have heard of them . . .”
I pretend to search for something in my backpack for a full minute.
“. . . and not only that, they wanted to sue for—get this—fraudulent roofing! Hand to God, I can’t make this stuff up. So anyway . . .”
I sigh as loud as humanly possible.
“. . . here’s the best part—it was the mother’s company! Can you believe that?”
In the face of Poncho Man’s unyielding torrent of absurd babble, I raise my hand.
“Yes?” he says, looking somewhat amused.
“I’m sorry, but you seem to have missed the indicators.”
“Indicators?”
He’s smiling again, just like under the canopy back in Mosquitoland. God, this guy’s a creep. I can’t quite place the why, but I know the what: there’s something there, something more than just your run-of-the-mill obnoxious bozo. Either way, it’s time to dole out a heavy-handed serving of honesty. Brutal and bold, Mim-style.
“Yeah, listen, I really don’t have the energy to point out each of the ways you’ve shirked the social cues of . . . well, society, so I’m just gonna say this: I don’t care, man. I’ve fake yawned, slow blinked, loud sighed, and pretend searched. I considered murdering you, as well as a variety of suicides. Now I’m going to put this in a way I know you’ll understand: you stole my friend’s seat, and I’d rather die than listen to you speak. My case, counselor, is airtight.”
He’s not smiling anymore. “And my sentence, Your Honor?” he asks.