here,there & elsewhere. Manly truths

It’s late in the evening by the time Bins and I get back to Elsewhere. We had a change of buses in Providence. The transit point is called Kennedy Plaza and it’s a major hub for buses in and out of the state capital.

We get into line for the bus. It’s a public transport vehicle, unlike the Greyhound that we had taken from Vermont and the Peter Pan we’d taken from Boston. This was a regular commuter bus and it was filled with the usual assortment of ripe, flavourful characters. Every single time I’ve taken one of these buses, there’s been a Soap Opera Passenger on board: someone who, in the course of the hour-and-a-half journey from Providence to Elsewhere, provides a programme of entertainment worthy of Reality TV. It was no different this time.

Bins and I board late so we get seats at the back. We’re sitting in the only remaining double-seater. Behind us is a pair of three-seater benches facing inward, towards one another. Barely has the bus moved away from its stop but the man behind us begins talking in a loud voice to the two younger guys with him. “You know the best thing I ever did in my life?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “The best thing I did was let go of my wife. Yes sir. And I ain’t never going to get married again until I meet a woman who doesn’t drink, who stays at home and looks after the kids. And you know the problem with the world today? There ain’t no women like that any more —”

It’s like listening to a recording straight out of the Gospel of Manly Truths. But after a few more pronouncements, the young woman sitting on the bench opposite this man pipes up: “Sir, I’ve got to tell you that you’re wrong!” She says she’s a nurse. She earns a good living and she doesn’t drink and she’s sure she’ll cook and look after the kids when it’s her time to settle down. “Is that right?” says Manly Truths. “Well, it makes me glad to hear it.”

Bins is loving every minute of the drama. He whispers in my ear. “You wait and see,” he says, “the guy will ask for her cell phone number.” Meanwhile the girl has stories of her own. “My mother is a real witch,” she says. “I hate her. She left my dad when I was seven ...” By the time the Nurse, who works the night-shift at her hospital, reaches her stop, she’s told the guys everything about her life, but not her number. Then she gets down. I turn to Bins and whisper, “See? You were wrong. They didn’t ask for the number!” Bins shrugs.

Behind us, there’s a brief silence. Finally, one guy says, “So, Petey ... how come you didn’t ask for her phone number, huh?” Manly Truths says, “Nyaah, she’s not my type. Too young!” But Bins bumps my elbow and twitches his moustache in triumph. “I win on points!” he whispers in my ear. “The intention was there!” I bump his elbow in return and allow him to savour his victory.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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