It started out like one of those dreams that plague college students. Except that this wasn’t a nightmare test in a barely attended class, this was a real test, sprung without warning on a CTA bus one weekday morning in 1980, and I couldn’t wake up to escape it.
The bus slowed for another stop and, as if to reassure me, the woman rose from her seat and stood behind the other two passengers at the front door. Now I have the bus to myself, I gloated. The next thing I knew she was walking back down the aisle. I covered my eyes, seeking invisibility.
“Habla usted espanol?”
Dazed, I watched the lady’s lips release their familiar yet nonsensical noises. And soon, some part of my mind was raising and waving its hand like an overeager third grader. “Esposo! I know that one! It’s spouse!” “Ciudad means city!” “Equipaje–that’s luggage–is dangerous?” I sighed, and decided to take the plunge.
I dived in and rode along, straining, straining to catch some familiar sounds and turn them into sense. But I couldn’t stay too long on any one word because then I would miss all the others and maybe some of those would be easier and carry more meaning and– We were staring intently into each other’s eyes. If I stared hard enough it would become clear that . . .
She must be a schizophrenic. I was stuck on an empty Chicago bus, one-sixteenth of an inch from a raving, non-English-speaking schizophrenic. I tried to meet her on her own ground: weren’t schizophrenics interested in religion?
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“Oh, oh, oh,” I said, nodding madly and grinning. “Los Angeles! Yes! You come to Chicago to see your husband? His name is Miguel?”
