September 19th, 2003

Me 2012

The Postman's Name is David

I caught the Rockhill bus this morning -- just barely. It was running early, and I saw it cross Armour ahead of me. But it stayed at the Armour & Gillham stop to make up the time, and I had time to dash across the street and climb aboard. I fumbled my dollar into the fare machine while the driver printed a transfer for me -- bless him, he's better at remembering I need a transfer than I am.

I stood by the front of the bus, leaning against the massive wheel well. The new buses are built with the front half close to the ground, and easier to access for people with mobility difficulties; the result is that a large chunk of the front, where a row of seats might fit on a standard bus, is occupied by the wheel wells for the front tires. Often, I'll stand there for the duration of my ride on the Rockhill, since it's so short.

But today, I was Postman waving to me from a seat at the back half. I smiled and waved back, whereupon Knit Shirt Woman waved to me, too; she's a pleasant, affable sort of person, so I waved to her as well. Then I walked back to say hi to Postman.

He held out his hand, and I took it. "I'm David," he said.

I told him my name, smiling. "David?" I repeated. "I'll try to remember that; I'm not very good with names. You've been just 'Postman' in my head for quite a while."

He chuckled. "You've been on my mind, too," he said. "I've been thinking, there's someone I gotta talk to a little more. I suppose you've got a man up there."

I nodded. "I do." I smiled, the wistful, happy smile of a woman thinking about someone she loves.

Postman smiled and shook his head. "Figures. That's okay; I ain't mad atchoo. Jealous, but not mad." He looked a little amused, a little regretful.

My stop neared. I tried to reach for the yellow cord but couldn't quite make it from the aisle. Postman -- I should say, David -- pulled it for me.

We wished one another a good day, and I scampered from the bus, out into the chill, crisp morning.