Six bowling balls are in the trunk (2009)

Today I took a cab home from work.  I had groceries. Lots of them. It was steamy piping hot and I had purchased vast quantities of aloe juice. Because, you know, I was thirsty. My work bag, I will freely admit, is vaguely Mary Poppins-ish in its size, but more so in the amount of things I manage to cram into it, which today included my laptop, a textbook, my planner, the school directory, two bottles of mineral water, a granola bar and one very sad apple, one bottle of coconut water, a stack of 70 student files that I brought home to read, random pens that work and don't work, and six highlighters. Oh - and a bottle of wine from a dear friend.

So I decided to cab it. When the driver arrived some minutes later, I didn't recognize him at first. Some people probably don't care about who drives them, or their lives. Some people want silence. I get that. A cab can be a meditative pause when one can exhale and not expect the person driving the car to say testily, "What's up with you? Why are you sighing?" It's a gift of time for many, and that makes sense.

I wrote previously about my love of a good cab, and the stories collected through conversation and fellowship. It's kind of like an internal version of Humans of New York, without the artsy photography, the recording of a person's experience, and the posting on Facebook. The post-it note memory instead is stuck to my heart as a really neat experience with an equally inspiring soul. Cab conversations keep me going.

So today, with my groceries and my aloe juice and highlighters, and those blasted ringlets that refuse to conform to my ponytail tickling my neck, I may have said something along the lines of "BLESS YOUR APPEARANCE AT THIS VERY MOMENT." It was an all-caps declaration. And then I realized in all that I was carrying, I didn't recognize Babu. He'd grown some facial hair. He too was hot. And tired. In that way that Babu has though, he said "Aww Paige, what has you down?"

Sometimes shame creeps along slowly, that snail that glides dolefully up one's neck. Other times, it hits one like a Mack Truck. Shame on you, Paige! He's hot, too! He's got things he's carrying! And you don't know a quarter of it! I did know that Babu has been trying to get his family to the States. They live in Nigeria: a wife, a son, two daughters. He misses birthdays and milestones. He misses the first lost tooth, the first day of school, his wife's cooking. "No matter," he shared with me one day. "We will find our way back to one another somehow, and when it is right."

Patience of Job, I say. And then some.

Today, Babu saw my impressive load and panic danced across his face. I think I witnessed at least five expressions in about ten seconds. "Ummmm...." he said, rubbing the new addition of the goatee. "The thing is Paige, six bowling balls are in the trunk."

I love it when people make statements of this sort, because they could easily be the beginning of a story. Sometimes, such declarations are stories without further embellishment. "Six bowling balls are in the trunk" is a terrific example of the mundane and the absurd, bound into one.

"Babu," I said. "I didn't know you bowled." At this point, I'm pretty sure the pineapple popsicles I purchased had melted.

"Oh I don't," he said.

"A friend bought them off of Craigslist and I picked them up for him. But he lives in Pennsylvania, and we were supposed to meet but he was deported so I just have them in my trunk now. They are just so big. I don't want them in my apartment."

Full stop. Unaware of frozen goods that were no longer frozen. Unaware of the bead of sweat trickling down the back of my neck. Completely oblivious to the Mary Poppins bag and its weight.

The weight of six bowling balls that Babu carried, in his car, unsure of where, when, or how to put them down. The weight of his friend recently deported, who apparently loves bowling. The weight of the car driving these bowling balls as passengers to so many destinations, none of which were theirs. Six bowling balls that had a life before they found their way to Babu's trunk. Six bowling balls that now spoke to Babu of the burden of loss and responsibility to a friend and carrying what is yours and what is not. That's a lot of weight.

And it also meant that Babu was paying more for gas, his trunk was full, and the back of his car sort of sagged in resignation.

We piled my bags next to me in the backseat of the cab. We talked about bowling and how heavy bowling balls are. We talked about the heat and how oppressive it was. We talked about air fresheners in cars, and how he can't find he likes.

When I said goodbye to Babu, I suggested that maybe he try to sell the bowling balls on Craigslist. He shook his head, rubbed his chin with his left hand and said, "Maybe he'll come back."

Maybe he'll come back.