Strangers, Soldiers and Stories

A couple days ago I was blessed with a spot of travel. Granted, it was on a bus (which I had summarily written off three years ago when I was the only English speaking person who had showered recently on a completely packed bus) ~ but I am over it. I love to travel. I have become a person who embraces travel for a multitude of reasons. Not the least of which is this: I like to talk to strangers.

More accurately, I like to listen to strangers. I have been a person who attracts strangers with stories for the last 35 years. I used to waste time wondering why it is that so many people told me so many stories, but I have finally quit caring and begun to just enjoy.

I was sitting outside the bus station in Wichita, KS for a couple hours because my ride was running late. If you've never gotten to experience sitting outside a bus station (totally different from train stations and airports,) you ought to try it some time. It puts  you in touch with your humility and vulnerability better than just about anyplace else on earth. And, you'll eventually stop noticing the aroma, it's not that bad.

There was a young man (younger than my children) who had gotten off one bus and had been standing so old ladies like me could have one of the very few seats available. He was holding a pillow with a perfectly white pillow case, carrying a small paper bag with what couldn't have been much in it, and had his plaid, short-sleeved, snap-down-the-front shirt swung over his forearm. He was wearing a black wife-beater which allowed for a stunning visual treat of his tattoos. 

He had GOOD over his heart, near his left shoulder, and BAD just opposite that. They were both done in that popular gangster Latinish script and were huge. He had tribal bands on both arms and looked like he was working his way towards full sleeves on both sides. He had a gorgeous piece of Spencerian script on his neck (tell me THAT didn't hurt like a mofo) that said "Understanding."

He had the short coif that could have easily been seen as an Army Doo, but it was the heart of America so he could have just as easily been a farm hand. He had these eyes that had clearly seen way too much. It's not like they were sad or desperate or lonely. I just got the impression that he had seen too much for a boy so young.

At some point he borrowed my lighter and told me that he was headed to Iowa to see his family for the first time in 5 years. Without even thinking about it, I asked him how long he had served.

He looked surprised that I knew he had been on tour.

He had just completed his second and was given one month to go back to hug his mama and brothers and decide if he was going to return for a third tour of duty.

I asked him if he was okay and I thanked him. I congratulated him on his ability to keep his limbs and survive what I can only imagine to be a kind of hell that nobody but our soldiers know.

He told me all about his mom and his two brothers and their home in a town so small it wasn't even incorporated. He told me about riding horses through pastures when he was young. He told me about his cousin's new baby boy.

Our ride arrived and we boarded. We didn't sit by each other because the bus was only half full and we both wanted to lay down on those two seats and sleep our ways to other places.

When it came time to get off, I was standing and looking polite and patient (just like my mom taught me) and was not expecting anyone in the line to pause and let me out. It's the unspoken protocol of travel - you don't cut in front of people disembarking.

We made eye contact and smiled and he motioned for me to go ahead and get in front of him. I gave him a peace sign and nodded thanks. As we shuffled our way off the bus (which does actually take more than a minute) he leaned in behind me and said, "I have to go back. I know I am lucky to have lived and still be walking and using both my hands. I know this is going to make my mother cry, but I have to do it."

For the first time since our country has gone to war I understood. Immediately thereafter I experienced a level of gratitude that I had never felt before and I wanted to thank (and hug) his mom.

I really wished I'd gotten his name.

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