Normal

I am not weird. There’s no way that I’m weird. Look at me. I’m a touch skinny -- maybe my hair is too long -- but I look normal. I am normal. At least I’m not that guy. Yeah, him. He’s not normal. I glance at my teenage face reflected through the glass at the bus stop. Yeah…normal.

I stare.

Oh crap there’s a woman on the other side of the glass. She’s starting back at me. I kind of shake my head in a cute way that says, “I’m sorry,” smile at her and turn away pretending to look for the bus. I love bus stops. I would probably stay here for a while if I didn’t find the actual bus ride more enjoyable. Ah, there it is. The 19 to Woodstock, my refuge, my rock, my ride. I approach the entrance but let the not normal guy go before because he’s, well, not normal. I do this in order to reassure myself that I am normal. I am no freak, no outcast. I am John Doe! I am a serf! A maidservant! Nothing exceptional! I am not fantastic, I am normal.

Praise God, the bus is not full. It rarely is at 3:30 – which is my normal time to come home. I sit in my normal spot (second row on the right side in the back section, window seat bitch) and put my bag on the seat to my right in a way that says, not today, this one’s taken.

In my backpack lies an assortment of supplies: A notebook, random hip book, change of shirt, iPod, and my Bible. I search through the items to see what toy I want to play with on my ride home. The notebook would make me look like a creep, people would most likely think I was writing about them, selfish bastards. And while most of them would be right, I would be taking notes on them, how dare they think that all I do is write about the odd people and situations I run in to. Exnay on the change of shirt because – although I have thought about this many times – there is no good way to play with a shirt on the bus. It wouldn’t be…normal. I don’t want to listen to music. So cliché, white ear buds on the bus with a backpack…so cliché, so expected of my generation and me. A big Negative on the iPod. My Bible? How upfront. How imposing. Look at me, fellow bus riders, I am righteous, full of compassion for you lowly sinners! I am Moses! Joshua! Follow me and attain the promise land! I settle for the random hip book. That is unexpected of the new, iPod, nonliterary generation in which I was thrown into like a piece of a recipe. Yes, a book.

As I open my novel, I notice a man in the front with sunglasses. He’s holding a stick with a green tip on it. Blind. This dude is blind. To be perfectly honest I’ve always wanted a blind friend. I want his name to be Jefferson. He could be black, or white, I mean not like that matters or anything. Just a blind friend named Jefferson. I have always wanted to know what their life is like. There’s that great question: “Chris, would you rather be deaf or blind?” I always opt for being blind. I think it is because I just love music, and even more so, singing. I guess I just simply love sounds. The train outside my window at night, the trees in the wind, the voice of a young woman. But me and Jefferson would go downtown and I would walk him through the streets and funny things would happen to us. Like I wouldn’t see an oncoming vehicle about to strike us, but he would hear it, grab my arm, and I would gasp. Oh! He would say something becoming like, - well I don’t know what he would say but it would always be clever and new, fresh like something I would never have thought of.

I continue to examine this blind youth sitting at the forefront of the bus. He looks my age. He’s white, with blond hair and skinny arms. He looks like a Jefferson. No that’s absur—

Oh crap he caught me staring at him like the lady at the bus sto—waaait. Ha. Damn, that’s something I never took into consideration when being asked the question. I would never know if some wacko was staring at me, I think that would bother me. Yeah, that would bother me. But that’s a small price to pay to be able to continue to hear a G major chord. Oh Jefferson. I need to stop thinking this guy is my buddy because if I don’t I will end up walking off the bus with him. I love this guy. I should read my book. What am I doing? I am not normal. I should ask the man in front of me. Excuse me sir, but do you think I’m normal? I mean, do I look all right to you? I haven’t done anything strange or out of—
I’m going to read my book. I’m not normal. No normal person would have an imaginary blind friend named—forget it.