3Half-Empty Cup
andrewADAMS
The first thing that greeted Wilson when he stepped onto the bus was the grimy visage of a homeless man who'd fallen asleep long ago with no stop to get off at. A tattered Styrofoam cup lay at his feet, and bits of loose change had scattered about it. This is what Wilson used to pay his bus fare.
The bus was crowded and standing people lined the aisle. Wilson inched through them, trying to avoid any contact between their hips and his crotch, excusing himself without really paying attention to the people he was pushing past, just looking for that one spot he could claim for himself.
But even room to stand seemed difficult. The bus had become so crowded that he doubted he could really fit. Person after person, undoubtedly coming home from work, would stand in the aisle with their briefcases by their sides, watching Wilson curiously. He tried not to make eye contact with them, but the bus started and sent him into the arms of a young, black executive with piercing eyes. He righted himself, brushed his jacket clean, and apologized. He turned away quickly and saw, interestingly enough, an empty seat. All these people standing, and there was still room to sit comfortably.
And so Wilson sat in the only empty seat on a bus filled with people.
That was when he noticed the stranger, the petite brunette sobbing into her sleeves in the seat beside him. Her face was red with tears, her sleeves glittered with snot, and her cries were interrupted only by random hiccups and wheezes. Wilson looked around the bus car briefly, but the people who'd been unwilling to sit next to the crying stranger were now unwilling to associate with her company. Even the young man who'd caught Wilson looked away hurriedly when Wilson pleaded for some sort of advice, guidance, or even direct help.
So Wilson cleared his throat, fidgeted, and clasped his hands in his lap. His hands were soft. He used lotion on them twice a day, and avoided any work that might damage his hands. He stroked his skin slowly, noticed that his hands seemed to resemble a clam when clasped together, and then he made popping sounds with his lips and took a deep breath.
The window showed a passing street full of quaint shops, most of which were deteriorating daily and which he would never be caught dead inside of. He ignored the sobbing stranger in the corners of his sight, and when she looked up he quickly skirted away, just like everybody else had. She burst into even louder tears.
The bus slowed to a stop and some of the people filed off. Others got on. Wilson watched the seats empty and prepared to leap into one, but those already standing stole them away before he had a chance. He sighed.
"Next stop: Arcadia Mall."
The bus began to pick up speed again, and Wilson fidgeted. He turned to the girl beside him. Still crying. One more glance around the bus and he saw an older woman knitting, watching him out of the corner of her eyes, a balding man engrossed in a newspaper, and a tired-looking man with two bags of groceries in his lap.
"I'm Wilson," he said.
He didn't say it to anybody in particular, and he didn't make eye contact with anybody, and so they all wrote it off as mere schizophrenia and went back to their own publically private occupations.
Nobody was looking at the crying girl.
So Wilson did. He extended one hand, trying to shake hers, and said again, "I'm Wilson."
She grabbed his hand but didn't shake it, instead wrapped her fingers around his and pulled his hand into her lap. She stroked his palm quietly and her sobbing slowly, but she still whined and moaned and sniffled.
"You okay?" Wilson asked.
"No."
He thought of her hands holding his, of the snot dripping down her face and of her dirty sleeves, he thought of everything that might be lingering on her dirty little hands and he tried to pull away. She didn't let him.
"What's wrong?"
"Everything."
And then she squeezed his hands, and her nails dug into his, and he screamed and used his one free hand to reach for the lotion in his pocket but she saw it as an invitation and took hold of that one, too, until both of his hands were completely in her control. They both whimpered.
And then there was silence. Wilson looked around. The balding man was still balding, the tired man was still tired, the young man was still young, and the knitting lady was still knitting. None had changed a thing, they'd ignored everything he'd done. Which wasn't much. He felt unappreciated.
"Look, lady, I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong with you, alright?"
And then she burst into tears again, threw his hands into his lap, and buried her face between her chair and window. Wilson wiped off his hands, checked for cuts, and turned back to her with a sigh. "So are you going to tell me what's wrong, or not?"
Silence, save for restrained crying.
"Come on, lady. I'm a stranger. I'm never going to see you again. You can tell me anything, and I'll have no reason to ever use it against you. So tell me what's bothering you."
"No."
So Wilson shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets, leaned back into his seat and looked around to see who'd watched his valiant attempt at saving this girl from inevitable misery. Nobody blinked.
And so he stared at the vandalized seat ahead of him, and was reading about graphic sex acts and the numbers to call if you wanted one performed when the girl suddenly leaned over, grabbed his cheeks and turned his head so that they were eye-to-eye. "What do you care?" She sniffled. "You're just w-want me to stop crying."
"That's not true."
"You don't even know my name."
And with that she turned back to the window and stared out, stone cold and silent for several moments, before a hiccup triggered another fit and the tears came flowing back. Wilson looked up. Nobody had changed except for the lady knitting. She was nodding.
And so Wilson sighed. "What's your name?"
There was a long pause, and Wilson fidgeted.
"Arcadia Mall."
The car stopped and began to let off its people. A wide number of the passengers had come for the mall and began to file out, leaving plenty of empty seats. Wilson eyed them tentatively but didn't move.
"Next stop: the Arcadia Home for the Elderly."
And as the bus picked up speed again, the woman said, "Claire."
"Claire?"
"Claire."
"Claire, I'm Wilson."
He extended his hand again, and she turned and looked at it. She wiped her eyes and took his hand, shook it, and then held it. "It's a pleasure."
"It doesn't look like it."
"I know."
"What's wrong?"
"You still don't know me."
"But I want to!"
"So I'll stop crying?"
She turned back to the window silently, but the tears had slowed. Her sorrow seemed to be replaced with an almost inexplicable indignation. Wilson couldn't tell if he was helping or not. If he was, it was very, very unintentional at this point.
"Well how are you, then?"
"I'm fine."
"Really?"
"Yeah. How about you?"
"I'm okay. Not phenomenal, I guess. I just got out of a meeting that could have gone better, but it's almost the weekend and I'm planning on calling in sick tomorrow, so the next three days should be pretty relaxing."
Wilson waited for Claire to respond, with anything, but she didn't seem up to the challenge. And then, just as he was about to tell her about the problems he'd encountered in the meeting, she did speak: "Oh."
"Yeah."
"That's nice."
"I'm in real estate."
"Oh?"
"Yeah."
"That's nice."
Claire wiped the tears away again and sighed deeply. Wilson fidgeted. "So, in the meeting, it was with a client, right? And they were trying to decide between several houses, and I was really, really trying to sell them on this one house, but instead they were just looking at the cheapest option, which was in the same area. So I was trying to change their minds, and I lied about the area, and I forgot that my own top choice was in the same location, so it completely ruled out both options and they went with a house that I don't even get much of a commission for." He thumbed at the hem of his shirt awkwardly.
"That's too bad," Claire eventually said.
"Yeah. But at least I did manage to sell a house."
"Yeah."
Wilson let just enough time pass for their inability to converse to become noticeably awkward. The lady with half a scarf in her lap looked up again and smiled, as if she was about to speak, but then thought better of it. As Wilson saw she would offer no help, he tried yet again..
"So what's wrong?"
"Leave me alone."
"Sorry."
But now that he'd begun talking to her, he found that it was difficult to stop. And so he went on, saying the only thing he could think to say: "So, any chance you're going to need to buy a house any time soon? I could give you my card."
"Maybe soon." And that single awkward offer sent Claire into another round of sobs. Wilson froze, not quite sure where he'd gone wrong, unsure of how to continue, and Claire just crumbled before him.
The knitting woman leaned over Wilson's lap and patted Claire's knee. "There, there."
"Thank you," she said.
"There, there." Claire put her hand over the lady's for a moment, and Wilson was stuck in a paralyzing moment with Claire crying beside her and an elderly lady leaning over his crotch.
"The Arcadia Home for the Elderly."
The announcement jarred the three of them and the lady retreated back into her seat, began to collect her items as if she was leaving. But Wilson watched, and she didn't move further, just seemed to get lost in thought, as if she were making an important decision, and then she turned back to the two of them and said to Claire, "And what is it you do, dear?"
"Me?"
"Yes, you!"
Claire smiled and began to speak.
"What's your name?" Wilson asked.
"Excuse me?"
"What's your name? Evidently, it's very important around these parts."
"Ingrid, dear. My name is Ingrid. But that's not what's important."
"What do you-?"
"Next stop: Caplan Offices."
And then the young executive spoke up, overriding the two of them. "Yes, what do you do?"
Claire smiled and turned to him, and Wilson stopped bickering to listen in.
"I own a local tanning salon."
"Really?" he said, perking up and leaning in over his briefcase in interest. "You own your own business?" Claire nodded. "I deeply, deeply respect that. I really do. How long has it been opened?"
"Four months."
"Really? And you're out this early on a Thursday?"
"It's the off-season."
"Is business doing well?"
"Not recently, but back in early spring. We're breaking even, though."
"Wow. That's... that's... I'm Rick, by the way."
And he extended his hand to her, and she took it readily.
"What about you?" she asked.
"Me? I'm a venture capitalist."
"Oh. Oh, is that why you like family-owned businesses so much?"
"Oh, no!" he smiled. "It's switched! I'm a venture capitalist because I like family-owned businesses."
Claire grinned.
"I'm just in real estate until my acting takes off," Wilson said.
"Hush, dear," Ingrid said. "This isn't about you."
The tired man with the groceries stepped in. "What do you do for fun?" he asked. "You know, in your spare time?"
"Me?"
"Who else?"
"I don't-"
"Call me Sam, if you like, if that'll help you answer the question."
"I don't know. I don't have much spare time."
Rick laughed. "She owns her own business, Sam, show some respect!" And then all four of them laughed, the crying girl and the knitting lady and the young executive and the tired grocery man and Wilson just furrowed his brow. "Let's say you had a day off, though, and you could go anywhere. Where would you go?"
Claire didn't hesitate. "Paris."
"Paris!" Rick grinned. "I've been to Paris!"
"Don't be stupid, Cathy. You can't go to Paris in a day," Wilson said.
"Claire."
"That's what I-"
"What's Paris like?" she asked.
"Oh, it's great. Smells like bread all the time and violins are always playing. Very... French. I don't know, I've kind of idealized everything, I just remember the Eiffel Tower, so majestic. It was... I have to go there on business every once in a while. Maybe you'd like to...?"
"Go with you?"
"Possibly."
"Oh, I couldn't! I just..." Claire faded out, and the moments following the awkward rejection settled in over them all, and then she seemed to have a change of heart. "You know, things might be opening up soon. Very soon. Are you going any time in the near future?"
"I could work it in, I'm sure."
"Caplan Offices."
The man's grip tightened on his briefcase, and after a slight hesitation, he opened it and pulled out a business card. He handed it to her. "Call me up and let me know."
"Next stop: Sentinel Outlets."
"I'll do that."
"Oh, isn't this lovely?" Ingrid squealed. She'd temporarily forgotten about her knitting.
"What about you, Rick?" Claire asked. "Where would you go?"
He grinned. "Paris."
"I'd go to the beach," said Sam.
"I'd go to my son's house," said Ingrid.
Wilson didn't have an answer.
"Alright, then. What's everybody's favorite movie?" Sam asked.
"Fight Club," Rick said.
"American Beauty," Claire said.
"I don't really have one," Ingrid said.
"You don't have one?" Sam seemed shocked.
"Well, no. I don't watch much television."
"But movies are a hallmark of American culture!"
"I'm half-German."
"But you live in America."
"How long did you live in Germany?"
Everybody paused. It was the balding man who had been reading the newspaper.
"Ten years or so. My family left during the holocaust."
"Are you Jewish?"
"No, but that was no excuse."
"I'm Jewish. My name's Seth."
They shook hands. "My apologies," Ingrid said. "Were any of your family killed?"
Seth nodded. "Yeah, but no hard feelings."
Claire giggled.
"Sentinel Outlets."
"What's your favorite movie, Sam?" Seth asked.
"Me?"
"Yeah, you. It was your question."
"Next Stop: Main Street."
"Have you been listening this entire time?"
"It's hard not to."
"I like Gladiator. It's gory, though. I haven't been able to watch it since I've had kids."
"Really?" Rick asked. "I've got it at home, if you want to come over and grab a cold one."
"Where are you getting off?"
"Uh, I don't know anymore."
"You don't know?" Wilson was reeling with shock. "Why would you ride a bus if you didn't know where you were going?"
"Shove off, Wilson." Rick turned back to Claire. "So what's your favorite scene in Breakfast Club?"
"I like when they all get high and tell each other stories," she said. "It's funny."
"You ever seen Fight Club?"
"No."
"We'll watch it in Paris."
Wilson sneered. Ingrid smiled.
"Would anybody like this scarf, by the way?" she asked. She held it up. She had finished it, and it was amateurish and full of uneven gaps, and Wilson was about to say so.
"Oh my God!" Claire said, instead. "It's beautiful!"
Ingrid beamed.
"You should be proud."
She fidgeted in her seat, and Claire leaned over and extended her hand. Ingrid slipped the scarf into her open palm. Claire looped it around her neck and rubbed it back and forth, arching her neck and letting the cloth massage her neck. "It feels very nice," she said. "What's it made of? What material?"
"Just yarn."
"It's soft."
"Can I see?"
Claire handed it over to Rick, and he felt it and grinned. "This is very well done."
"Main Street."
This was Wilson's stop. He grabbed his things and rose. He was near the back of the bus, and almost everybody ahead of him was filing out. The seats were all empty. Everybody was gone except for him and his five friends and the homeless man asleep in the front seat.
As Wilson was walking down the steps, he took some more spare change and woke up the homeless man. "End of the line, old man."
And then it hit him. There were no more stops left on the route. The bus driver shut the door behind him and immediately rose, headed to the back of the bus. In the typical silence of three dozen strangers riding together, he'd heard every word of their conversation.
Wilson paused at a bench. Through an open window, he could hear the remainder of the conversation.
"I'm David. Do you mind?"
"Not at all!" Claire said. He heard her patting a seat, and knew that David was sitting where he had just been.
"I'm sure you're better company than our last guest," Seth said. "He didn't listen at all."
"Always talking, never really cared what you have to say," Ingrid said. "Only asked questions if it meant he could talk about himself."
"I heard," David said. And then he turned to Claire. "I also heard you were having some difficulties."
"Yeah! What was that?" Rick asked. "You've got to tell us."
"Oh, it... We drove by a café. I saw my boyfriend with another woman."
"That's horrible!" Ingrid said.
"I'm so, so sorry," David said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Why don't we all go get dinner?" Rick suggested. "The six of us."
There was general agreement, and David got up to drive them to a restaurant. They all rearranged themselves to be seated in the front seats, where they could still talk, and the bus drove off, leaving Wilson alone in the streets.
He sighed, took up his belongings, and began walking along to his apartment. He trudged up the steps, trying to wrap his mind around what he'd overheard, trying to think of where he'd gone wrong and how he'd come across so rudely, and then he opened the door and entered. His wife was in the kitchen. Normally he'd take his items to their bedroom first. Today he walked into the doorway and watched her for a long time, until she turned and smiled at him weakly. "Tell me about your day," he said. And her smile grew.