“So is cheerfulness, or a good temper, the more it is spent, the more remains.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson
One morning in Hoboken, for the first time, I jumped on a community shuttle bus to take me to the PATH. Three things lightened my usually sullen commuting mood immediately: the fare is only 50 cents; there were several open seats available, and a good song, “Layla” by Eric Clapton, was wafting around the brightly-lit and clean cabin.
Not only that, the driver smiled when I came aboard, was patient while I fumbled to find two quarters in my wallet, and waited until I sat down before pulling away from the curb. The rest of the trip, he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and whistled along to “Slowhand,” while stopping exactly at the spot where people asked to be let off.
And everyone on the bus thanked him when they left, not just automated responses of courtesy, but actual heartfelt expressions of gratitude.
My first thought was that I’m still sleeping, having a pleasant dream.
This idea ended abruptly as I stood and banged my head hard on the side panel, sending a throbbing pain shooting from my forehead to my neck.
“Hey, man, you okay?” the driver asked as I approached the bus’s door. “I saw you bang your head.”
“Yeah,” I said, rubbing my noggin, “clumsy.”
“That happens,” he said. “Don’t feel bad.”
And then I echoed the sentiments of the fellow passengers, “Thanks – thanks a lot.”
So it was not a dream, but an actual genial, almost warm-hearted moment, while commuting, no less. And then it got better.
As I neared the PATH entrance, a woman passing out free newspapers handed one toward me and said, “Hey, honey, I like your jacket.”
My jacket’s a mess. It’s a worn, mostly soiled faux black trench that I scored years back by mistakenly picking it up at a party. It’s so bad my wife has more than occasionally suggested I throw it in the trash, and has completely forbidden me from wearing it when we meet her friends. But I love it, and obviously the lady giving out the free papers did as well.
I shot her a “thanks,” my second real one of the morning, and shoved the paper rakishly under my tunic. So I was feeling good, and I sauntered toward the train with a bounce in my step. I made it to the doors before they closed without having to break into a trot, and there, right in front, was a lone, free seat. I was about to pounce, but then I remembered in a split second the last few minutes of my life: the concerned cordiality on the community shuttle bus and the unsolicited compliment from the free paper lady. I thought, “Shouldn’t I build on this kindness? Shouldn’t I take this surging feeling of good will inside my body and transport it to others?”
I decided yes, and glanced around to see if someone else might need the seat. And I spotted her, an older woman, maybe in her early 70s, standing tall and proud near the doorway.
I cleared my throat, tapped her shoulder, pointed to the seat. “Would you like to sit down?” I said.
She glanced where my finger’s directed and shook her head. “No thank you, but thanks for offering.”
Now I felt even better. Not only did I make a noble, chivalrous gesture, I still get the seat. I moved fast toward it, spinning on the heels of my scuffed topsiders like Drew Lachey, and sat down with a satisfied plop. Then I felt it, a wet ooze riding through my jeans and hitting skin.
I stood immediately, looked down at the seat, and saw a perfectly round, coagulated pool of melted vanilla ice cream.
In the next seat, a man reading a magazine peers over the pages and said lazily, “That’s not good.”
And the older woman, still standing straight-backed and regal, looked at me and let out a snicker.
“Thanks,” I said aloud. And I meant it. – John McCaffrey
John McCaffrey is a frequent contributor whose story, “Words,” will appear this summer in an anthology of flash fiction published by W.W. Norton & Company. He can be contacted at jamccafffrey@earthlink.net