Niece, did you see what was on the flo of the bathroom yesterday? the first girl said.
Um-huh. Girl, who would leave something like that on the flo? the second girl replied.
The white man came from the back of the bus with a funny little walk: one shoulder down, then the other, hands stuffed in the pockets of his winter coat. The old woman pinched her nose as he passed. He sat down in the seat directly behind the first girl, who was closest to the aisle. Both girls spun in their seats.
Whatever was on that floor, the white man said, couldn’t have been as ugly as your goddamn face.
Who you talkin to, gray? the first girl said.
I’m talkin to you, bitch!
Ut-oh, Niece. I’m gon cut this mudda fudda! She rose with switchblade swiftness and reached for something in the back pocket of her bicycle pants.
Nancy, be cool!
Lincoln bounded out of his seat and seized the girl’s hand. It was hot. And soft. Take it easy, ma’am.
She tried to twist free of his grip. Let me go.
Please, ma’am. He’s not worth it. Her skin was soft. And hot.
You better let me go. Nobody calls me a bitch.
He right, Nancy. Be cool.
He’s not worth it.
Fuck you! the white man said to Lincoln.
Lincoln glared at him. He reeked of sweat, his hair matted like wet fur. He wasn’t as old as Lincoln had thought; in fact, they could have been the same age. Fine skin fleshed out a face where green eyes shone through dirt like exotic gems. I suggest you find another seat, Lincoln said. He released the girl’s wrist but held her in the corner of his eye.
The white man sprang to his feet, like ice water had been spilled on his back. He was small but solid. As he and Lincoln squared off, his face grew hard, eyes flooding, changing color, two pools of swirling blood.
Find a seat or I’ll knock you into one, Lincoln said. He was on the edge of a great venture. He would leap over the gulf in his life.
Come on. The white man crouched low and raised his fists.
Lincoln showed him two sets of hard knuckles. I think you’d better get off the bus.
The white man maintained his crouch. Lincoln squeezed his fist and cracked his knuckles, mimicking the terrifying sound of some powerful force crushing steel. The white man pulled himself upright, fists raised. I’ll fight you, he said, even though you ain’t my size. Lincoln moved forward. The white man pop-locked in fear and fled to the rear exit of the bus. Leave me alone or I’ll jump, he said. Lincoln took a step toward him. He jumped.
Gawd, Nancy said. You see that crazy white fool?
Um-huh, Niece said.
The bus screeched to a halt, throwing everyone forward. Lincoln regained his balance and walked with the slow certainty of a meter maid to the rear exit, where he stepped into the jumper’s ghostly residue, thick stink. The near-giant driver came down the aisle, head bent to avoid hitting the roof of the bus. He looked at Lincoln, pop eyes swelling in anger. What the fuck is going on back here?
The old woman looked at Lincoln. He forced a paying passenger to jump from the bus, she said. The wrinkles in her face twitched like live wires.
Nawl, that white fool jumped from the bus, Nancy said.
My God! the driver said. He rushed to the rear exit, shoving Lincoln aside.
Yeah, Niece said. He called her a bitch, and this dude — she pointed at Lincoln — came back here to see what the deal was. The driver had already exited the bus.
Why don’t you just shut your mouth, the woman said.
Make me. You ain’t my mamma.
True, but I’ll still slap the shit out of you.
Niece didn’t say anything. Neither did Nancy.
Lincoln moved to a window. A crowd had gathered. The driver stood over the white man, who lay crumpled in the street.
I’m hurt, the white man said.
Right, the driver said.
I’m hurt!
The driver looked at him. I’ll give you some hurt, he said. The wind moved over his shirt and the shirt over his muscles.
Okay, okay, the white man said. Help me up! He extended his arms, and the driver pulled him to his feet — an acrobatic routine. Easy, brother, the white man said. The driver gave him a look. Using both hands, he brushed the white man’s coat free of dust, and the lucky recipient responded like some grim clown by snapping the creases in the driver’s pants. The driver gave him a look. Then the white man spotted Lincoln and gave him the finger. The driver shoved the white man forward. Get on the bus. They forced a path through the crowd, dust clouds whirling behind them, and got back on the bus. The white man sat down in Lincoln’s vacated seat, cuts, welts, and red half-moons mapping his face.
Hear ye, hear ye, the driver said. At the sound of my voice the time will be eight forty-five. Welcome to the Love Bus.
That scanlous white man, Nancy said.
Shit, Niece said.
Lincoln was heading directly for the white man when he spotted one of his novels, Hot Nights and Napalm, on Nancy’s lap.
Excuse me, ma’am, Lincoln said.
What you want? She was still angry.
Let me introduce myself, ma’am.
Why bother.
Nancy, you need to quit.
I didn’t catch your name, ma’am.
Why don’t you go catch a truck.
Niece snickered.
You fast gals can get hurt talking to me like that, Lincoln said.
Mister, you better sit down, the old woman under the tam said. She had her hand on something bulging inside her purse.
Ain’t gon be no mo shit on my bus! the driver screamed. He was watching Lincoln in his rearview mirror, pop eyes straining like water-filled balloons. Either you find a seat, or I’m callin the police.
You have a witness in me, the old woman said. My name is Barbara Bleach Breedlove.
Okay, the driver said.
That’s Barbara Bleach Breedlove.
Lincoln gave her his meanest look.
Sir, you better keep your eyes where they belong.
I’m not bothering you, granny.
And you better watch how you speak to me, or I’ll come over there and beat you like a bald-headed stepchild.
Lincoln spit out a laugh.
Okay now, the driver said.
Lincoln didn’t want any trouble. The driver might be every bit as powerful as he was ugly. He slipped forward and took the seat at the rear of the bus. Felt something cold settle in his stomach.
It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, the old woman said.
Amused, the driver shook his head.
The girls snickered, their shaved-braided heads moving as one. Lincoln just sat there. The white man winked a green eye at him.
Smirking and grinning, the girls exited the bus at the James Madison Public Academy. Lincoln noticed that Niece was also carrying one of his novels — spread the news: three sightings in less than an hour, in one location—Brave and Tender.
A few blocks later, the old woman rose to exit. She looked at Lincoln. Didn’t nobody learn you nothing?
Well, granny, you sure didn’t.
Just one more word, the driver said. He watched Lincoln in the mirror.
Lord, give me the strength so I won’t have to hurt nobody today. The old lady’s hair was so white under the sun that Lincoln’s eyes began to hurt. Old-ass granny. She adjusted her white bow and rolled her own eyes at him as she exited. The white man went behind her. Brother, you have some ugly shoes, he said. He gave Lincoln the finger. White trash. Lincoln sat in silence.
The bus hummed to the bridge that separated Crescent Hills from the city proper. Lincoln saw rippling water beneath. Little by little, his death took shape. This morning, he would seduce Frieda Lead—We’re in this together, ma’am, you and me, the same—then catch the bus back to the city. Under the lingering sweetness of his conquest, he would swagger down Congress Avenue. See the traffic cop again. At a chain bookstore he would purchase a copy of Judy Chicago’s The Dinner Party. Once home, he would disrobe and retire to his bedroom to make careful study of the book’s glossy and finely reproduced illustrations of postmodern vaginas. It would take him some time to emerge from this papery maze, satisfied and at ease with his discoveries. He would record the day’s events in his diary—Frieda Lead: she moved me—work on his new novel, with little success, then go out for a walk and chance upon a flyer circulated by FUSION. Deck a white boy. Chase the speeding boy down Washington Boulevard. (His smell lingering. Jet trail. Never seen anyone run so fast.) Chance upon the billboard Jesus for the second time that day. See Jesus shake his head. Return home in the last shimmer of day. (Lamps already lit along the alleyways.) Receive an anonymous phone calclass="underline" Brother, your days are numbered. The next morning, he would read the Daily Observer, see his brother’s name, rush into the elevator and out the building onto the expressway. Never before had the sun shone so bright.