Scott Capurro
GT
November 2007
Whilst heading for the last empty seat on a San Francisco bus, I stumbled over a rider’s white sneaker, and apologized.
“That’s alright,” he said, “don’t worry. I know you. You’re that man from the store.”
I wasn’t sure which store. I’m always in search of the perfect cashmere V-neck, but this guy didn’t look like a retail clerk. First off, he was missing teeth. Lots. His dental history appeared checkered. Also, he had a crew cut, which would’ve been hot were he young and slightly fascist; but he was older and a bit doughy. His blue chambray shirt was tightly tucked in and he was wearing his name on his breast pocket, like he’d been to a seminar. Only his name – Paul – was scribbled with different colored pens.
“Have we met?” I asked, shyly. The other riders looked down at their Sudoku.
“Yes. You’re that man. From the store. The big store. Do you know me? I’m Paul. From the store.”
“Oh. The store.”
“Yes. You know me.”
The dialogue was driving deep into David Mamet country, and I’m not a huge fan. I detoured.
“I don’t think I know you, but have a nice day.”
I looked down at my Vidal memoir. I could hear Paul watching me. He was throwing audible sounds my way. Sounds like “Uh huh” and “Oh” and I think I heard an “Oh no”. My palms were sweating. One never knows in America. Some psycho who seemed nice two minutes ago might whip out a rifle and open fire. There might be bodies everywhere, but at least this bus would arrive on time. Death is such a small price to pay for punctuality.
“I’m sorry.” Paul was breathing loudly. I didn’t want to look up. Don’t psychos often express regret before they gun down the innocent? “I’m really sorry.”
I looked up. He was staring at me.
“It’s alright.” I attempted the calming voice of pure middle class reason. “I’m just reading.”
“Oh. I’m retarded.”
Well that explains everything, I thought, as I stifled a laugh. I held my breath, and my eyes welled with tears. I had four stops to go. Could I hold out? I feigned a cough. That helped a bit. I released a giggle. My head was hurting.
I wasn’t not laughing at Paul, although his contrite tone over his handicap sounded almost self-parodying, the way someone who’s not retarded might claim “I’m so retarded” after doing something mildly stupid. What amused me was that, on a bus full of insular, isolated commuters who years ago traded in their brains for Madonna music or a ridiculous mortgage, Paul is the only one willing to admit his hindrance. I’ve had my head banged around a few times. After three concussions, maybe I’m the retard, still dreaming, even while 44 and on a fucking bus, that some day I’ll play Wembley, when Paul’s the only sensible dim wit in this lurching piece of metal who knows and accepts his limitations.
I actually envied Paul. He has a clinical excuse for his shortcomings. And being retarded is like surviving the Holocaust, or crying on demand. Genocide or tears wins every argument. Even Paul knows that if he mentions his impediment, the conversation ends. When I was young, if my older sister had her period, she got to ride in the front seat. I remember begging for my period. I was too little to realize I had other options. If I’d lost a few too many brain cells, I could’ve picked the movie every Friday night. Understanding the movie would’ve been challenging. Easier than being old and Jewish; and every time I tried to force tears, I pooed. And I tried, often. That’s how important winning an argument was to me, even as a child.
Later, on the morning radio show I’m co-hosting, today’s celebrity guest/fuckwit has such a piercing, relentless tone to his voice that I have to remove my headphones. He was on the American ‘Queer As Folk’, and he’s rattling on and on about how “groundbreaking” his work was.
“I’m straight, but playing a gay character, which made other straight people much more likely to watch the show.”
Since when is homophobia inventive, I ask myself. But I ask him how he stays fit. The next half hour is spent with him billowing about Karate.
“So you’re both a trained killer and a homophobe? Shouldn’t you be stationed in Iraq?” I can’t help myself. The actor stares at me, incredulously.
“Sorry,” I tell him, my head tilted, “I’m retarded.”
You can’t blame me for trying.