Point of View

POINT OF VIEW
by Terry H Jones

Vola shifted again, moving closer to the edge of the bus stop bench, farther from the ill-kept teenage boy and unkept hobo sitting beside her.

'Wait,' she thought. 'Not a hobo. They don't want to be called hoboes any more.' The wandering men who came to the back door when she was a girl, they called themselves hoboes. They rode the rails, and worked for their supper, and her mother always gave them leftovers. 'Nowadays, hobo is an insult,' she thought. 'Hoboes are "homeless people." What an awful term.'

"I think I'd rather be a hobo," she mumbled.

Vola froze. 'Oh my God, that was out loud!' She inhaled a gulp, trying to swallow the words before they reached the ears of the others on the bench. She tightened her grip on the shopping bag. She felt the two turn to look at her, just knew they were staring.

'Oh, God. They'll think I'm crazy. Some crazy old bag woman.' She forced herself to relax her grip on the shopping bag. 'The boy will probably mug me. That old hobo will think I'm like him.' Slowly, without turning her head, praying they didn't notice the movement, she cut her eyes toward the pair.

"Duh!" said the boy. He picked up his skateboard.

The hobo stood up. She gripped the bag again, bracing for the attack. "Well, ma'am," he said, "I don't believe you'll enjoy it as much as you think, but you're welcome to try. C'mon, boy. She can have this bench. I've got my own."

And then she and her bag were alone.

'Slash. Or Squirm. Maybe Squirm spelled Skwirm. Naw. Nobody would write it that way. They'd just write it the way it sounded. But it does sound like it would have a kw, so how come we don't write it that way? Maybe Tongue. I'll get my tongue pierced all up and down each side. Yeah, maybe Tongue. Damn! Why'd Mom have to name me Justin. What kind of a prep name is Justin? She must have been watching soap operas while she was high when I was born. Justin! Damn. Exhaust? Naw, that sounds like a professional wrestler. I need something that screams extreme, lets everyone who says it know the world I'm in. Dude. Did that old woman say something? Guess not. I need a name that makes people think of me when they say it, and when they see me they think of it. Wait a minute! Justin. Everybody already thinks of me when they hear Justin, and they think Justin when they see me.'

"Duh!"

'Maybe if I skate awhile I'll think of it. Yeah. Ride that concrete wave. Did that old man just say something? Guess not. Concrete? Naw. Too long.'

Flaming yellow cabs streaked by, leaving the ether behind them flowing and glowing, evidence of their cleaving the street's existence. More and more vehicles swam through, each spinning swirls through the cloud of reality. Finally a small, red sports car passed by, whirling eddies of crimson through the screaming yellow, making the drift of colors rain onto the blacktop to be slurped up by the storm drains.

Carl had not always been able to see this. It had taken years of study, hundreds of hours pouring over esoteric paperbacks, quarts of Old Forrester, pints of aftershave, and tins of sterno to make a start. Even then it was only combining sythetic hallucinogens and chloroform that finally opened his third eye, allowed him to see the angelic demons that clung to every creature, the motionless faeries that trooped along with all plants, and the thick reality of time and air that hovered on and through all creation. His job, his house, his family had all gotten in the way of his new vision, or maybe his new vision had gotten in the way of them. He didn't know. It sounded like a good question. Maybe he'd think about it some time, some time when then people around him didn't echo so loudly, when their odors vibrated less.

For example, the woman at the end of the bench, the one with a bag of new shoes and old fears, she'd just announced she would like to be a hobo. The teenage boy that sat between them resonated with the thick, brown words.

"Duh!" he said, meaning "All the Universe would rather be a hobo!"

Well, of course it would! But the time, the dedication, the evenings spent wrestling dogs and gnomes for food - how many were up to this? How few? I must tell her, he thought, tell them both of the immense sacrifice required to be a shaman. Or a turtle. He stood, opened his mouth, and allowed a river of irradiated, irridescent, pearly wisdom to flow from his lungs like fertile raw sewage onto a bean field.

"I don't believe you'll enjoy it as much as you think," he said, "but you're welcome to try. C'mon, boy. She can have this bench. I've got my own."

And then he rode away on a current of golden shoe leather.