The new boy

(Sorry to be late, this is harder to do when I don't have a computer.)

I have to wait at Midway between buses for awhile since it's Sunday. The heated bus stop shelter draws homeless people out of the dark cold night. There are at least two of them, older men. The first one is big and he wants money for the bus, something about needing to go to the hospital. I say no, I don't have 50 cents. After asking a few other people he comes back to have a conversation. I take my headphones out of my ears but still can't understand most of what he says. He stands closer than I want him to. There is something white inside his nose. When he finds out I speak Spanish he mixes some in with the English, which is hard enough for me to understand already. I say "What?" loudly so that he has to repeat everything.

The other homeless man is small and wants to know everyone's age. He insists on repeatedly thanking me for my careful attention to the button that turns the heat lamp back on. He guesses I am six years younger than I am. When I say no, he drops another year. He stands even closer than the big one and makes quick and strange movements. "I'm sorry!" he says suddenly, perhaps noticing my discomfort. "I'm not touching!" He backs away with his hands up. "I just...I love you." I assume he is still referring to my heat lamp duty. He begins to bother some other girls while the big man continues to ask me half Spanish questions, moving from school to boyfriends. I tell myself that I want to talk to him so I can practice my Spanish. I wonder how much of my life I have spent manufacturing excuses to do things I only ever do because I know the person next to me wants me to.

When I finally get to church, the new cantor is singing. His voice is a boy's, not a singer's, and he doesn't match the piano, which gently slows up to wait for him. I silently urge him to catch up and do the song correctly so he won't be embarrassed.

I am the only person who can hear my anxieties, so I listen to them until they smooth themselves out.

I decide that the boy is right and everyone else is wrong. There must be a reason he doesn't follow the piano or the music on the sheet.Who writes the music? An adult. Who teaches the boy to sing? An adult. Who plays the piano? An adult. The gulf between us and the boy is one of knowledge, the knowledge of the world that sticks to anyone who's walked through life long enough. It is always tainted. The one with the least knowledge must be the most right, so I listen to the boy.