Dear Carl

The first time I saw you on the bus, I couldn’t see past your crocodile leather baseball cap and enormous gold rings on each finger. It may not have shown, but I was laughing at you on the inside. Then you started talking in your very loud voice, and I laughed a little harder.

The next time I remember you distinctly was when you yelled at me. I had my laptop on my lap, and you let me know that that wasn’t safe. You couldn’t let it go either. I tried to pretend I didn’t hear you through my headphones. And I didn’t close my laptop till you left on purpose. It irked me that you were trying to tell me what to do, and I wasn’t going to let that happen.

You always yell out a date whenever someone leaves the bus. I couldn’t figure out why you did that; I thought you were just weird. And getting kind of old and senile.

I heard you talking (how could I not? You were so loud) and telling someone that you were just going to ride the bus downtown and back again since you didn’t have to be home till 7:30. Snide remarks wanted to come out, but then I started thinking about that. And I began to wonder about you a little.

Then, yesterday, someone stopped to talk to you while I was sitting right behind you. Someone came to you, not the other way around like usual. He sat down across the aisle from you and wanted to know how you were. You asked him about his son. What is his birthday, you said. Four, twenty-nine, ninety-three, he replied. It took you a second, but then you said, Thursday! He was a Thursday baby. Then you sat back, satisfied. No, you sat forward again. What’s your next son’s birthday, you ask. One, six, ninety-eight.  Tuesday, you say after a moment. The man across from you must have seen my smile, because, well, I had just checked the calendar on my phone to make sure you were right. You were. According to your friend, you never miss. The man asked if I wanted to tell you my birthday. He used your name, Carl. That was the first time I had ever heard it. So I told you my birthday, and you told me that I was a Wednesday baby. Then a woman got up and left the bus, and you yelled out, Three, five, sixty-seven.

Then I knew. I knew that you weren’t crazy. Maybe a little autistic, but not crazy. You had found out the birthdays of all the regulars on the bus. You knew them by their birthdays and it was your way of identifying with them. You turned around and said to me, Oh good, you don’t have that laptop out. That’s dangerous. And then I knew something else. That you  must have an amazing memory for people, for dates, for . . . everything! You knew my birthday now and you would probably never forget it and every time I see you on the bus, your head will think “12-26-90, Wednesday.” You know what, Carl?  I almost cried right then, because while I had laughed at your wardrobe choices, your voice, and even your loneliness, you had been trying to connect with people. I had not bothered for one second to really even consider you, and now you knew more about me than I knew about you. You wanted to know my name and whether I was . . . right or left-handed. Carl, God used you to hit me upside the head with just how self-centered I am, and for just a few moments, I saw you through God’s eyes, to the person underneath all the stuff on the outside.

I used to roll my eyes every time I saw you on the bus, but now, I pray for you, Carl. I pray that more people like that man on the bus will give you a chance to shine. That someone is waiting for you at home, ready to take care of you. I pray that God will bless your bus ride. I pray that if I ever have the chance to talk to you again that I’ll be a blessing to you. I pray that God will give me humility to see through His eyes more often. I never thought that riding the bus to work would be such an experience. Thank you for being you, Carl. Hopefully, I’ll see you tomorrow morning on bus #142.

A different person after meeting you,  

Mareena