BUS PEOPLE 2:The Retarded Man

He is sitting at the front when I get on. I take my usual seat, hoping he'll get off soon. Retarded people make me uneasy. A grease-stained red jacket and an Edmonton Oilers cap set off the familiar ensemble of Down syndrome features. His greying stubble is the only clue to his age. I notice all this over the top of my book; the seat beside me is empty. A few stops later, an elderly woman gets on. The retarded man, displaying a courtesy rare among bus riders these days, gives up his seat for her. I know where he's headed. He sits down heavily, his bulky body pressing into me like an inescapable fact. I can hear him breathing, steady as a metronome. I keep reading. He keeps pressing into me and breathing. By the time he gets off, I have begun to find it strangely comforting.