Catharine has two ears, one on either side of her head, and a mighty fine head it is. A drunk on Telegraph, near the bus stop in front of Carl’s Jr., after asking for her name, shouted, “Yeah, you Catharine the Great.” Whenever she saw this fellow two things would happen: she would attempt to avoid him, and he would shout his favorite phrase. The heavy drinkers low on Telegraph use the benches at bus stops for seats and for beds and for panhandling prime locations. She drives her car to work on ordinary days. On inspired days she rides her bike. From Oakland to Berkeley every single darn day. Her brakes were making noises and so she brought the car in to those Chinese guys on MacArthur. She trusts them. Even though they don’t speak a word of English and she doesn’t know diddle about cars. She, like many of us, are as vulnerable as you can get when it comes to our automobiles and those men who fix them. They could tell me anything and I’d be, well, that’s that. Catharine the Great drove her car down to the Chinese guys this morning and already there was a two-on-two game going across the street, the grunts audible. Catharine in her hose and business skirt and pinstriped jacket dipped into the small room and left her keys with Arthur. This blonde woman in a bikini stood next to a kickstand motorcycle and the colors were fading on an old calendar. Catharine walked to the bus stop and stood there for the 40L. L means limited stops. She went to work without incident excitement mishap or curiosity and she worked harder than most of us. On the way home she reversed the process to retrieve her car it didn’t need new brakes it needed new engine mounts six hundred bucks. The bus was jammed to the point of bursting and she could only stand next to the driver and had to hold on for dear life and had to stand in front of the white line, you know, where it says Do Not Stand In Front of White Line. That was her. Holding on for dear life also because the driver was a maniac, slamming on the brakes for each stop and tearing away to re-enter traffic and the passengers tossed around and going, “Excuse me. Oh, excuse me.” She squeezed the greasy yet sometime gleaming metal pole and then ten more people got on the bus. Catharine pushed farther back as did the others. She has two ears, one on either side of her pretty little head. Deeper into Oakland now and that she is one of a spattering of white people is merely mentioned for coloring: Just so you see it. There is an earnest boy of six seated next to the window to Catharine’s right. He is singing, both loudly and with severe concentration. To her left is a man approaching fifty four years old or he could have been forty seven, given the circumstances of his life, unfortunate or not. He encourages a running monologue of grave importance. The two people, man and boy, are not a cacophony to her head they are the facts of life. The portrait of the bus that lurches along Telegraph. Most people take the bus because they have to; some because they want to. The man: “It’s good to come in last. Comin’ in last is the best, no doubt about it. You come in last and that’s a mighty fine thing. I like comin’ in last. When you come in last it means you finished, at least, and you don’t gotta spend as much energy as those who finish first. They’re working all the time, speeding along, and you’re just poking nice and fine, calm and steady, and you come in dead last and that’s good.” He waxed on this topic without pause. The boy to Catharine’s right was singing “This old man, he played one, he played knick-knack on my bum, with a knick-knack paddy wack give the dog a bone, this ol’ man came rollin’ home.” He started with one, brow furrowed in concentration, not at all concerned or even aware of the other riders, and he went all the way to ten and then back again, singing at the top of his lungs. “This old man, he played nine, he played knick knack on my behind, with a knick knack paddy wack give the dog a bone, this old man came rolling home.”
“And comin in last is what I was meant ta do. I move nice and slow.”
The bus slammed on the brakes and “Excuse me, no, excuse me,” Catharine holding to the pole and moving backward as others entered the bus. The driver tore away from the curb and the passengers gripped. Those with seats moved to the rhythms and shakes and wore weary expressions, end-of-the-day appearances, summer on the bay. Somebody read an article in the newspaper about an 89 year old man who crawled for 23 hours straight on his hands and knees to inform people, weeping probably, that he had accidentally run over his wife with a tractor and killed her. He had been injured earlier in his life and couldn’t walk, not without support, not without holding on to things. He crawled on his hands and knees all day and night. The bouncing woman who read the article shook her head and felt like she was going to cry.
“This old man, he played five!”
“An comin in dead last is what I aim to do. You won’t see me tryin’ to beat those people. What do they know? An’ besides, we all goin’ to the same place in the end, boy, let me tell you.”
“He played knick knack without no jive!”
“Look at those people just hurrying about, they use up all their energy, all this vitality. Not me, cuz I come in dead last, I tell you.”
Catharine said, “Excuse me, excuse me” as she gently moved toward the door in anticipation of her stop. She made the white line again, hopped down the steps, and walked past the hamburger joint and the drunk on the bench said, “Hey, there’s Catharine the Great!” and he asked for a dollar, anything. She shook her head but said “Good luck,” and she walked up MacArthur at a fast clip to the Chinese fellows in grease-stained coveralls and whether it’s an oil change or a new transmission Catharine didn’t know because she didn’t want to know. At the end of the day and a game of two-on-two was still in session. It could have been the same guys, grunts and the sound of sweat.