Ray

Pulling into the parking lot of Walgreens, I sat in the driver’s seat of the paratransit bus I piloted for the county’s elderly and disabled citizens, waiting as my latest fare, Appearing as if by magic, Ray struggled up the four steps, handed me his token and walked to his seat. He leaned heavily on an ancient, non-descript wooden cane.

“Mornin’,” he greeted me.

“Hi Ray,” I responded in kind. “Straight home, right?” I asked.

“Yes, please.”

I waited as he eased down the aisle of the small bus, empty now but for the two of us. Eventually he found a seat and plopped down into it.

Waiting until he secured his seatbelt, I put the vehicle in gear and we rumbled away. My passenger lived but a mile distant. Elderly and disabled, he couldn’t travel more than 50 yards under his own power.

As I sped down HY 111 en route to ninth st., where Ray’s modest clapboard home reposed, we enjoyed a companionable silence.

Suddenly he spoke up. “A guy yelled at me today,” he told me.

“What?” I asked, incensed. Why would anyone yell at such a pleasant and harmless fellow? I wondered.

“Yeah,” said Ray. “I was sittin’ outside the pharmacy, my back against the wall, waitin’ for you, when I saw this couple walk past, aroun’ 30 feet away. The woman this guy was with was a real looker,” he continued. “The guy wasn’t much to look out, but she was fine.”

“Why did he yell at you?” I asked. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw Ray shrug.

“I dunno. Because I looked at his girlfriend, I reckon,” replied Ray. “I mean, my tongue wasn’t hangin’ out or nothin’, and I didn’t say nothin’ to her and I certainly never touched her. I just sat on the sidewalk and looked. Liked what I saw, too” he said, remembering.

“What did he say to you?” I asked.

“Asked me how I’d like to get my ass kicked,” replied Ray. “An’ I said, ‘thank you, no.’ ” Ray chuckled.

“Then what did he do?” I asked.

“He yelled some more. I couldn’t unnerstan’ what he said,” said Ray, “but he started walkin’ in my direction, until his girlfriend grabbed his arm and pulled him back. As she took hold of him, I could see her smirkin’.”

I looked in the mirror again and saw Ray shake his head.

“She got what she wanted, I’m thinkin’. But lemme ask you, what kinda girl wants to fire her man up with jealousy like that? I mean, I’m forty years older’n that guy. They both insecure,” he said.

“I don’t know, Ray,” I said, shaking my head.

“Apparently, I still got it,” he said brightly.

“You do,” I agreed.

“Lucky he didn’t tangle with me,” said Ray. “I wouldn’ta been gentle,” he promised.

I looked in the mirror once more, to observe Ray. At five feet, six inches tall and perhaps 115 pounds, he had a formidable demeanor. I smiled.

“Uh…” Ray said, “…what’s your name again?” He asked me this every Thursday when he rode on my bus. His faulty memory was a product of his nascent dementia.

“Rolanda,” I told him again.

We pulled up in front of Ray’s modest cottage on ninth street.

“Home again, home again,” sing-songed Ray, struggling to his feet.

“Have a good one, Ray,” I said.

“Be cool, Yolanda,” he replied, then sidled to the sliding door.

 Suddenly he turned back. “I know it’s Rolanda,” Ray said, then added. “Sometimes it’s best not to give ever’thin’ away.”

He limped to his front door, waving and smiling at me.