Halfway through the bus ride — that is, at a point of the ride which was neither the beginning nor the end, all else being an indivisible median — a disembodied voice emerges behind us (more on her later), a halting yet strangely forward inquiry to a fellow passenger. No, no, nothing salacious, but certainly a question out of turn, there are preliminaries and introductions and banter to be undertaken first. And during a morning bus ride! That precious mass, you and your brethren silently genuflecting before the gods of Peace and Quiet.
Now the conversation begins, slowly at first, seeking out points of common interest, but within a few moments it's clear that our initiator is the agreeably lonely sort, convivial, a bit slow — alright, alright, oblivious — and no stranger to those devastating rebuffs wrapped up in the cold instinct of elitism we later recast as industrious dignity of the ambitious soul.
I play a little game, closing my eyes and imagining him, unkempt hair, jowls and puffy cheeks, his hang-dog eyelids creased and lips slightly open in that expression of a mind trying to listen closely and failing, already delving into some new inner fancy, rudely shaping it for public release. I look; if I were a betting man, I would not have been displeased.
It has been my experience that the corner of one's eye captures a universe that, forever in periphery, is liberated from judgment and thus slightly more alive. While performing my appraisal of the idolater I spy another (cf. "us") in the same act. Here the similarities end: I am the curious researcher, she is a priestess administering an inquisition (on a bus ride one's revenge is always initiated with a sigh.)
Her first volley is a steady staccatoing of the fingers, a tried and true gambit - but the defense's walls remain stubbornly unaffected. Next comes the piercing stare; unfortunately it is, as far as I can tell, too effective, boring right through the target and careening off into space. On to round three, the coughing fit, fighting sonic fire with fire, the hypocrisy of a scold laid bare. (War is hell.) There is an awkward moment where the conversationalist struggles against the assault by speaking even louder, misinterpreting this calculated maneuver as merely the work of an uncooperative larynx. But then comes the epiphany, the abrupt retreat, the surrender, the burying of the dead.
Still halfway through the bus ride (though the skyline is growing ever closer on the horizon), I feel a sudden pang of relief. How do you separate adherence from indifference in a world of silence? Before this jihad, our religion was lacking, complacent, untested, harmony too easily attainable. From now on, I will play the happy martyr, and Peace and Quiet will find their champions, and together we will atone for all sins of omission.