Aisle Seat

She rested her head on the shoulder of the stranger, and dreamed. She dreamed of Thanksgiving dinner and Easter parades. She dreamed of funeral processions and lecture-hall uproars. She dreamed of insect invasions and store-wide sales. She dreamed of rusty water from the faucet, and gravel crunching underfoot. She dreamed she was a handmaiden of the Lord in her Maidenform bra.

But when the bus began moving through the red hills of Wyoming, she woke. “Where are we?”

“Pulling into Cheyenne,” said the stranger. “Want a cracker?” He showed her a small suitcase full of various jellies and crackers; he seemed proud of it. She pointed to the mint jelly and he quickly fixed her a little snack. “I’m Pete.”

She was somehow dismayed that the fellow was no longer nameless. It had been alright for her head to drift onto an unknown shoulder, but not one belonging to a “Pete.” She smiled nervously and crammed the rest of the green-topped cracker into her mouth. “Thank you,” she mumbled through crumbs.

She wanted to change seats, but the bus was full, and even if it weren’t, Pete wouldn’t understand. He was in the bus station now, but he’d be back soon. She’d have to make conversation now. Or she could choose to fall asleep again. How would that be possible? She’d just woken up after hours of napping.

Pete returned; she moved her legs aside so he could get back into his seat by the window. He didn’t say anything. Maybe it could just stay this way. “I’m still so tired,” she remarked. “It’s the humming,” he replied.

The bus began moving again. She pretended to fall asleep as before, and soon she was actually asleep, dreaming of octopi swirling in the sea; dreaming of a choir of hounds in robes singing Bach’s “Wake, Awake for Night is Passing;” dreaming of an elderly architect couple insisting on building her an elaborate house in the desert while she cried and begged that she only wanted a cave; dreaming that she worked in a factory fastening legs onto chairs. The factory smelled like mint jelly,

It was night when she awoke. Pete’s head was resting on her shoulder. He was muttering, “Just a little more salt. Please.” They were pulling into Salt Lake City, Utah. He woke, smiled shyly, clearly embarrassed that there’d been a switch of roles, as if a situation so simple could even call forth a “role.” “It’s OK,” she said. She got off for a bleary walk around the bus station, then returned to her seat.

They sat in silence for several more hours. He had a book. She didn’t ask what it was or look closely. She brought out a thermos she’d filled with black coffee back in Lincoln. It was still almost warm. She offered him some. He chuckled. They alternated sips from the red plastic cup.

And then they were both asleep again, despite the coffee. He dreamed of a plant growing so fast it took over a city. She dreamed that her dead sister had returned and was making clothes that no one wanted to wear. He dreamed that Jack Kerouac had sent him a message on a scroll carried by a world-traveling cat in the garb of the famous Puss-in-Boots. She dreamed that she was flying a steam-powered helicopter so skillfully that a crowd gathered upon her landing to ask for her autograph.

“This is my stop,” Pete was saying as they rolled into Reno. She nodded solemnly and moved her legs for him to get to the aisle. He retrieved another, larger suitcase from the rack above. It matched the one with the jelly and crackers, a dark reddish plaid.

“San Francisco for me,” she said. He nodded solemnly in turn.

As the bus crossed the California state line, she brushed a dark hair from the shoulder of her light blue sweater.

— Macoff