A folded up paper sits quietly next to me. I open it. It
reads:
"Think of the word alternate. What does it mean? What is its dictionary
meaning? Now think of the word reality. Our own realities are events in our
lives that we acknowledge. Reality is our personal perception of the world
around us. Every single reality is different for each individual person. Now
what is alternate reality?"
I neatly fold the piece of lined paper back into its
original creases. What a concept. I think to myself.
The bus stop I’m waiting at takes me to work every morning.
I walk two blocks here in rain, sleet, or snow. Today it is sunny, not a cloud
in the sky. The station sits right near the corner of Pilot Street and Ramsey
Boulevard. Ever since I got my current job I’ve been using this particular
bench to spend part of my mornings. Colorful graffiti greets me to my right. It’s
an extinct language, speaking in tongues but expressing its emotion and meaning
through color. Below me are scattered cigarette filters and discarded pieces of
gum in all hues. A filthy trashcan sits to my left, obviously unutilized. At a
bus-stop in a busy bustling city this is the norm. A sad cracked flower box
with wilted flowers is perched on top of the garbage can. It looks under
watered and neglected. I look down the racing concrete strips that stretch far
into the distance to see if the bus might be on time for a change. My watch
reads 7:03 am; not a chance.
An elderly, friendly looking gentleman that arrives out of nowhere
sits down next to me. His white moustache is curled up at the ends and mimics
the corners of his mouth.
“Great weather today…” He looks to me and mumbles.
“Yes it is. A shame I don’t have the day off.”
“Mmm,” he paused. “Yes, that is a shame.”
I fold and refold the note, and then I open it and clumsily
fumble with the corners. I read it again, then I return it to its original
state and shove it quickly back into my pocket. On its way in, the paper
crumples and makes an uncomfortable noise. He looks over and I avert my eyes. I
can feel his gaze on me. I look up and our eyes meet. His wrinkled face screams
comfort; his soft brown eyes sparkle with knowing and an intense sense of
wisdom. His smile still a part of his personality he says, “What have you got
there? You look a little thoughtful.”
“It’s just a note I discovered when I first sat down…” I
trail off and sheepishly look away, almost ashamed to share.
“Not to be nosey, but I’m a little curious…” His gaze
flashes at me.
I reach into my pocket and pull it out, his hand extends.
There are creases on his hand telling me that he hasn’t worked an easy day in
his life. He unfolds it gently and begins to read. After a moment he finishes
and hands it back. I quickly crumple it back into my pocket, almost as if it
were a secret note for my viewing only.
“Interesting,” his furry brows are knitted showing deep
contemplation.
“What are your thoughts?” My personal confusion of the
letter might be solved if I involve another mind. I ignore my inner voice
telling me to keep quiet.
“It’s interesting,” he repeats. “Alternate reality for me
would be a cubicle.” His features loosen and he looks to me for feedback.
“I think of green… Mountains… Birds… Flowers…” His face
wipes blank and I wonder if I have said the wrong thing.
“Why?” He states with no adjustment in his voice.
“Well we essentially live in a concrete jungle here.” I look
down to my shoes and the concrete for some sort of approval. I look back up and
he’s looking down the street at the approaching bus. I continue.
“What do you think about the environmental crisis?”
The bus pulls up and we both stand to our feet. I follow him
to the folding portal into the crammed public transportation vehicle. He begins
to enter the bus and stops on the second stair. He turns around to face me. His
face is crumpled with thought and abruptly and quite loudly he says, “I don’t!”
He turns around and disappears in the crowd of people
standing closely together like a heavily populated forest.
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