Places are places, and everybody has to be from somewhere. Everybody starts out strange, but there is nothing worse or better about where anybody comes from, in my view. I look at the Hmong guy in the supermarket comparing a can of shaving cream to a can of whipped cream. They look the same to him, and I hope he’s not making pie. I watch the ladies with their scarves covering their bodies and much of their faces trying on bright red underwear at Marshalls, and I wonder what their life is like in their private worlds. I see old Chinese ladies, old as dust on dirt, fishing cans out of bins for the return money and wonder if anybody is looking out for them.
I have it on good authority that I now live in Red Sox Nation, which brings me to another set of questions about Big Green Monsters and dirty water. Being a fan made you an instant member of a group, and everybody is a fan when the team is winning. Some even when they are not.
In the park there are men asking for handouts, what my dad used to call “hobos.” Which ones do I give money to and which ones do I pass by? Every one of them looks just as sad, like the world up and forgot them. Seven cents worth of God help us, Ma used to say. I could tell you everything there is to know about creek-walking or quarry-diving, but sharing the sidewalks with all these folks has me flat-out confused. If someone had a book of rules, it would help, but I think we’re pretty much on our own, and unless you have a lick of sense, it’s hard to figure.
So I wonder sometimes, in a world as big and weird as this one, just where do I fit in?
EIGHT
Found
She saw him at Park Street, standing on the middle platform with tracks on both sides where trains go in opposite directions. Some red-sneakered youngsters with electric speakers were warming up for the evening travelers’ entertainment.
On top of his snow white hair sat a beret, a black beret, and he wore a dark duffle coat, the kind with toggles for buttons. He was small, with darting eyes and a fierce watchfulness. Shifting from one side to the other, he was searching for someone to answer his question. Stella saw him approach many people and watched as they moved away from him, one by one. She wondered just what he was looking for.
“This is to Cen-trál?”
“Pardon?”
Shrug.
“Cen-trál?”
Then, there was much pointing at the map on the wall covered with graffiti and gum, and too much detail about Maria’s love life.
A couple of kids, college kids most likely, poked at him and turned him around, mimicking “Cen-trál, Centrál!”
And then he was in front of Stella. He popped up like a jack-in-the box and looked directly into Stella’s eyes.
“Cen-trál?”
“Do you want to go to Central Square?”
“Most important!” he roared as he pointed at his watch and tore a piece of paper from his pocket. An audience with the governor, Stella thought. Maybe he was advising the mayor. Not likely.
Then Beret Man stabbed his finger at a circle on the map and pointed down the track, first in one direction and then the other. He lifted his shoulders as high as his curved ears and threw his arms out wide.
“Cen-trál!”
Stella nodded and began to count the stops for him on her fingers when the train rolled in, drowning out her words. When it stopped, she hesitated, then offered the open door.
“Okay, mister. Get on this train with me. I’ll tell you when to get off.”
No movement. Threads of people wove around the two of them, aiming for the opening.
“Come on!” She said, “Go Centrál!”
The old man swept his arm from his waist, out to the subway door, as though pulling back a magnificent curtain, and ushered his benefactress in.
They sat across from one another, his hand on his knees, his back as straight as a poker. He sent out the message that to come within a body’s width would summon guards, dogs at the very least.
“In my country, astrophysicist, in this country, important meeting in Cen-trál Square!”
“Sure, sure. Well, it’s just a couple of stops.”
“Verrrry important. I become American. Verrrry soon.”
The stop at Mass General brought many more people onto the T. Stella waited until the train was moving again for his monologue to start up, too.
“Most important scientist in my home. Degrees? Twenty. Teach in many universities. People pay to listen to me. Money!”
Are these the kind you have to worry about? thought Stella. Guys who go ballistic on public transportation and, I don’t know, start attacking people? He doesn’t seem the type, but he’s sure worked up.
“Here, no work. Translate, fill in papers, BAHHH.”
In fits and starts, Citizen Beret punched out details at the top of his voice. He sounded like he was giving orders, but he was really informing the crowd inside the car of his urgency. Their total and complete attention was required, as though the riders, through sheer concentration could move the subway that much faster. Naturally, everybody ignored him.
Well, they pretended to pay him no heed, but this was entertainment, too. As long as you didn’t stare, Stella remembered. But, of course, she was locked in eye contact. She was his guide, his student, his witness on a train full of people shuttling up and over the bridge that stretched across the river.
“Attention passengers. We will be stopped here for traffic ahead. We’re sorry for any inconvenience. Attention passengers. We will be stopped here for traffic ahead.”
Mr Science was standing, walking, hands and arms in constant motion. As he warmed up, he began talking about his history, his past. He painted a picture with his short, loud sentences of triumphs and struggles and being an old man in a new world. By the time he got to his coming to America, Stella was surprised to catch heads bobbing, up and down the car.
There was no sign of moving that subway, and the light spread out over the river, a little pink here, lapis blue above. Shoulders relaxed. People were listening. People were thinking.
“In Africa, I was a doctor. Here, seven years it will take to receive a license. Who has the money? I bathe people in a nursing home. Nice people. Old people.”
“Tele-Vision sets. I fix tele-Vision sets. I can build bridges, dams. I fix tele-Vision sets now.”
A sheep farmer worked in a shop, selling mobile phones. He had a special running. Anybody interested?
From different parts of the car, a few voices told what is lost by leaving the old country. And what is found. Getting his papers organized for citizenship, a famous man had to prove he wouldn’t blow anything up. Or get on welfare. Or a hundred other things that people had to prove to come here and be American. Things Stella didn’t ever think about.
“You born here?”
“No, not here.”
“In America?”
“Well, yes, but another part, pretty far away.”
Silence.
“You parents born here?”
“Yes, yes they were, but they are gone.”
He bowed his head and clicked his mouth in sympathy. And she was a little proud that he was talking directly to her while the passengers watched without watching.
“You grrrrandparents born here?” She liked the way his r’s took an age to come out, to get across the car to her.
“Far as I know.”
“Well,” he proclaimed. “You a rrrrrrrrreal Yankee Doodle!” And he beamed, as though he had discovered, like an explorer on his own, without benefit of map or direction, nothing but good instincts and good fortune, a gem in the promised land hidden on the streets paved with gold, an Honest-to-God Real Article.
The car erupted in laughter that spread from one end to the other. Somebody whistled. The people sitting next to Stella patted her on the arm. One grandmother, with no sign of teeth in her head, broadly smiled and wiped her eyes, wet with mirth.
With a chug, the train jerked forward and in a few moments moved across the crest of the bridge and into the tunnel. One stop, two stops, and Stella extende
d her arms like a game show girl when the train came to a halt and opened its doors. Professor Cen-trál doffed his hat, took his triumph (did he bow, just a little?) and left the train.
People rode on. Some got off, some got on, and the merriment was diluted a little, but the car stayed warm, very warm, and eyes met and did not look away.
Stella rode on and on, and when the train came to its final station, she merged with the Lexington commuters, the backpacked students, the caretakers, the shop clerks and the fix-it men, the aspiring writers and the cleaning ladies crossing the highway to work. She felt the glint of Orion’s belt, sent down from the steely sky, upon her American head and walked on.
Yankee Doodle Page 3