spwilcen
Bus Stop
My name is Isaac Rosenstein. Yes, I’m Jewish and yes, a Rabbi. Put that aside. Pay attention, regardless of your religion or lack of one.
Going to Temple, I waited alone at the normally packed Stilton Avenue bus shelter. My bus came, slowed, the driver looking, never stopping. I bolted to give chase, thinking myself a paying fare. Like a mime running into an invisible wall, I couldn’t leave the shelter. Stunned, gathering my senses, I turned to see a smartly dressed woman. She looked as perplexed as I felt.
She mumbled, “I’m headed to Wall Street. How’d I get here?”
Having no answer, I offered none. While we silently contemplated each other, a handsome black man in scrubs appeared. That’s right, ‘appeared.’ No other way to describe it. All I could make of the badge dangling from his pocket was, “MD FACS.”
“This is not Wixom Station,” he informed us. “I’m headed to Pres General, how the…” He stopped.
Three people realized they were in a shared dream. While we ‘dreamed,’ a twenty-something woman materialized mid-blink. I’m sorry, all I can say in description is “Stoner.” Apparently, this not a new experience for her, she was not as puzzled as her three companions.
Normally a loquacious sort, I struggled to speak. Someone had to. I was put off, as instantaneously, a cello joined us in the shelter, with its owner.
“No, no, no!” he stammered. “Rehearsal begins in an hour. I’ve taken the wrong transit again!”
People outside the shelter passed by, not paying the five of us any notice. As if we were on-stage, light outside dimmed. I could see nothing beyond the shelter. Dumbstruck, five people stared at each other.
Two pieces of shelter air quivered. That’s all I can call it. As five jaws stood agape, well, four, shapeless air took human form.
One spoke. I’ll call him, “One,” the other, “Two” for simplicity. “Good evening, people. You are here for a reason. Our reason.”
“Oh! My! God!” said Stoner. “We’re being abducted! How cool is that?”
“No,” offered One, matter-of-factly, addressing the group. “We are here to warn you.”
“I’m sorry?” queried Philharmonic.
Wall Street was Madison Avenue or Libber indignant. “Well, you can’t hold us captive while you…”
“But we can,” corrected One.
Wall Street, obviously not a science fiction fan, charged at One. Her action proved foolish. Precisely as she reached to grab One, One became a female Wallstreeter, then mere vapor. Wall Street ran clean through One, crashing into the mime wall. As she collected herself from the floor, One solidified, becoming a black man as he addressed the doctor.
“You are devoted to helping mankind. Yet you are angry. Doesn’t that seem to you…” One looked at Two. Two squinted at One and shrugged. “…contradictory?” finished One.
“Have you seen what’s happening here?” spluttered the doctor.
“Yes,” said One, coolly. “I fully understand. You do not. You should. You could. But you do not.” His tone was icy enough the doctor chose to not continue.
One looked at Two. Two began coldly, with a sonorous, nearly ominous voice, “We need to be here. There are things here. We cannot be here the way you have things…” Two looked at One. One winced. Two continued, “…disturbed. It is unsafe.”
“So, you’ll just take over?” asked Philharmonic.
Suddenly as alabaster as Philharmonic, One answered, “No. We could. We won’t. We’ll wait. We’d prefer to share. We were here…” One looked at Two. Two blinked. One continued, “We were here one hundred years or so ago. You were warring. Not a proud moment. Few proud moments since. We admonished then, as we do now. Warn you, if you care to look at it so. Not to save you. Not to help you. Not to conquer. To warn.”
To no one in particular, Two added, “We need not act. You may eliminate yourselves. Of course, we’ll have to clean up after. We’ve done that before.”
“Why us?” asked Wall Street.
Two nodded, and continued, again appearing as a female Wallstreeter. “You have no special skills among your species. But you have clear minds, also access and influence among people. Surprising as it may seem, you, among others, have the best chance, the tools to awaken your species. Disguised by the moment, you represent the means, the voices, the humanity, the love of real beauty to influence others. We will meet with others of you many times the next few weeks.”
Two assumed somewhat the disheveled look of Stoner. “You, child, in all your confusion, stand the greatest chance of understanding. When you do, sadly you will not communicate well. If you do, you will not be believed. Unless something in you awakens to clear your mind and your voice. Pity.”
One looked at me. Stupidly it struck me he was Rabbi Wasserman. He spoke, “You, holy man, are dealing with hatred.”
“Yes,” I replied, “I am. My Temple has again been vandalized. It’s merely a building but the hatred hurts my people more. We can cleanse our Temple. We cannot cleanse people.”
“No, holy man,” said One, “I speak of your hatred. And oddly, you must cleanse people.”
My embarrassed blush probably was visible through my beard. One had lanced my soul with truth. As I shared silence with my four shelter partners, voices, seeming those of One and Two, spilled a thousand thoughts into my mind. They remain. I am yet to fully understand.
One concluded to no one in particular, “You have another…” One looked at Two. Two closed his eyes briefly. One shrugged and finished, “One hundred years. Impress us.”
I blinked. One and Two were gone. Light returned outside. Passersby appeared. Some came into the shelter. Five left the shelter.
The warning delivered was ominous. Also unbelievable. Circumstances suggested are believable. If we don’t act and convince others to do something, we may forfeit our home to someone else. Maybe in less than one hundred years.
© spwilcenski 2020
TheProse 7/10/2020
spwilcenwrites 10/14/2022
Ramblings 