Chapter 9

Rocky Mountain News: Riots broke out Denver, Tucson and Reno on Saturday as protesters demonstrated against new anti-hoarding state laws restricting amounts of flour, sugar and other essentials a household can purchase in a week. Officials were unwilling to discuss the number of dead, but organizers estimate the count at tens in Denver and over a hundred in Tucson.

National Guard trucks were stationed at every major bus transfer point. Bored men with fresh crew cuts sat in humvees with their M-16's in plain view. Brendan had the distinct impression that few if any of them were happy with their present assignment.

On the bus he saw the newspapers had eight pages of pictures from "The Secaucus Riot" as the media had labeled it. People who wouldn't normally acknowledge each other's existence, much less talk to one another, pointed with fingers and jabbered on with half-truths, repetitious facts, and plain old opinion. The mood in the bus was heated and anti-government as the descriptions of the dead and wounded were recited by readers in different parts of the bus.

Brendan felt a thread of hope when an old man tucked his cross back in his shirt. Perhaps the man had figured out that he was riding with a bunch of heretics and non-believers. As the bus jostled from stop to stop, Brendan finally looked up from the closest paper. A head full of rich, black, glossy hair caught his eye. When the head turned towards him, he recognized the young woman from the rectory kitchen the night before. She looked up and recognized him, covering her mouth with her hand.

Brendan went back to staring at his feet. At his stop he rose and departed, looking neither left nor right as he marched out the door. He marched along in the same manner the rest of the week. He marched with a broom and he marched when he took out the trash. Like an automaton, Teacher marched through every grubby, disgusting, chemically dangerous or simply dangerous task

He felt like a robot. Oscar would yell and rail, but Brendan wouldn't flinch, only blink his eyes once or twice. Marisol would insist on explanations and answers; Brendan would reply with a quiet voice.

On the bus, Brendan caught sight of the young woman twice more that week and he turned away each time.

On Friday Oscar complained with every swear word he knew in both Spanish and English about a man who refused to pay a bill of several thousand dollars. He threw a hammer, a circular saw and various cuts of wood. Brendan listened emotionlessly. He accepted his $500 and $2 without comment, and walked out the door wanting to do nothing more than sleep away the weekend. He did, but he couldn't stop the niggling thoughts in his head.

Monday arrived and Brendan's self imposed isolation began to fray.

Brendan found a spot in the back of the bus where the seats faced each other rather than forward. There was more chance of getting a butt in the face, but the extra legroom was worth it.

"Hola," a female voice called out across from him. Brendan looked up and into the face of a familiar Latina woman, one he had been scrupulously trying to avoid.

"Hi," he acknowledged.

"You know my brother, Hugo."

Brendan nodded.

"I met him at the St. Margaret's last Saturday."

"I remember you," she said. "You were in the kitchen."

"I remember you as well."

Brendan's affect was flat. He didn't want the anger to rise in his blood because he didn't want to feel anything. If he felt something, he might start to feel the horror and loneliness as well. He might feel the loss of Carly's bed, her deadpan delivery, her smile, and her crazy hair.

The woman had the grace to blush and a bit of Brendan's wall evaporated. He felt it and the loss scared him.

"I guess I was a bitch, no?"

"It was my mistake," Brendan said, lying just to shut her up. She wouldn't take the hint and kept looking at him.

"Where do you work?" she asked.

"I can't say here."

She smiled sadly.

"Most of us can't."

"My boss is a crazy Venezuelan. He has his way of doing things, like everything is a secret. I do my job and he is happy with me."

The moment the words came out of his mouth, he regretted saying them. Why was he having a conversation with her? He should be minding his own business and ignoring every one else; it was safer that way. The bus lurched to a stop and Brendan realized he had reached his destination.

"Bye," he said to avoid being rude but also relieved to be finished with this conversation with a pretty woman.

The front desk was quiet most of the morning and Oscar let him stay there. He sorted mail. He attempted to read a dense document on workplace safety requirements which required some sort of eye washing station and chemical burn neutralizing set up. Brendan found the entire pamphlet an amusing joke. They were lucky if the dishes for lunch were clean.

Before lunch an officious little man waddled in. His gut threatened to pop the buttons on his stomach underneath his dirty, faded tie. Despite the cold outside, the man wore his bedraggled tan overcoat unbuttoned and open. Looking up at his face, Brendan decided that his thin mustache looked tacky between his fat, sagging cheeks. He introduced himself as Mr. So-and-so from the Department of Small Business Administration, and he insisted on talking to the owner of the business.