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  There was a time when the man and friend lost track of each other. They didn’t speak for four or five years. Neither can remember what had happened to provoke or warrant this.

  The man says, What do you see out the window?

  The friend says, Much as you’d expect. Passersby, bystanders, neighbors, acquaintances. The odd salesman, the odd bird, the odd lost dog. I look at the weather, I track the sun’s progress across the sky. If it’s raining I note how it’s coming down, straight or sideways, in sheets or drops.

  The man says, And you don’t get bored by this?

  The friend says, It’s the world we live in.

  The friend is correct that this is the world we live in. There are passersby and bystanders, neighbors and acquaintances. It’s impossible to determine just how many passersby and bystanders there are at any particular time.

  All of it depends upon who is doing what and where, if anyone is doing anything at all and if either are offended.

  Certainly passersby have to pass by something.

  Of course there must be at least one person at this fixed point to observe the passersby passing by.

  A bystander is generally present at an event without participating in it.

  The event can be anything, but is generally tragic.

  Which isn’t to say that all events are tragic, only that when the word bystander is invoked it generally means that someone is standing by a tragedy.

  The word innocent almost always precedes the word bystander.

  Passersby can pass by an event without participating in it, but as long as they don’t break stride they remain a passerby.

  If the passerby stops to look around, take in the scene, they become a bystander. Provided the event is still occurring.

  It’s unclear if one can be a bystander to an event that has concluded.

  It’s possible the man has been a bystander and a passerby and it’s possible he’s done more than stand or pass by during a particular event or occasion.

  It’s possible he has made things worse by standing by.

  The man tries to remember something he has witnessed, something catastrophic.

  The man cannot think of anything, which has always been a problem for him.

  There are, of course, countless neighbors and acquaintances in the world. Some neighbors qualify as acquaintances.

  There must be millions of birds and dogs in the world, too.

  The friend lives several blocks away in a ranch house with his wife, Janice. This house is significantly larger than the Cape Cod and sits in a nicer part of town, even though it is only several blocks away.

  The friend’s house is less than a ten-minute walk from the man’s house. Still, whenever one visits the other, they always drive.

  The friend can blame the accident on having to drive and sometimes does, but he’s always driven to the man’s house.

  The friend says, There’s also the bus stop up the street. I can see it out of one window in one of the guest rooms if I wear my binoculars.

  The man says, What do you see there?

  The friend says, A curious lot.

  The man says, I’m sure.

  The friend says, They are all of them wrong about how they look and how they talk and what they think and how they stand and sit and wait for the bus. They are the wrong kind of people.

  The man says, And you can tell that by just looking at them.

  The friend says, It’s not difficult.

  The man says, Have you ever taken the bus?

  The friend says, Why would I take the bus?

  The man says, To see where it goes.

  The friend says, I can go there in my car.

  The man says, Where does the bus go?

  The friend says, Hell if I know. Probably the city.

  The man says, I’m not sure I’ve ever taken a bus in my life.

  The friend says, You haven’t missed anything.

  Most people take the bus alone, either commuting to work or back home again. People don’t often talk to strangers on buses. If one takes the bus with a companion they sometimes talk to each other. Their conversations are almost always tedious. They talk about their rotten children, how this one moved in with that one or how another was arrested on trumped-up burglary charges. Sometimes they discuss what they want for lunch and where they want it.

  Nothing important is ever discussed on a bus.

  Yesterday, though, on the bus the two friends are currently discussing, one young woman, probably no more than twenty-five, struck up a conversation with an elderly man. Both were dressed as if they were going to or coming from church.

  The young woman relayed a story about her great-uncle and how he was a basket case after the stroke. She said it was terrible. She said they had to feed him porridge through a straw every day, that’s all he could manage. She said he was down to ninety-five pounds, though he once was stout and imposing.

  The elderly man said something like It sounds like he lived a full life, though he had no way of knowing this.

  The young woman smiled and said he did.

  Then the elderly man said something of his late wife and how she loved the beach, where they used to go every weekend. He said they’d take this very bus every Saturday morning. He said they’d spend hours there, the whole day if they could. He said that’s how she died.

  His wife loved to swim parallel to the shore. The elderly man never liked swimming himself, so he never joined his wife in the water. In the beginning, when they were first married, he’d watch her swim, as he wanted to keep an eye on her, make sure she was okay. But then he started to do other things. Mostly he read the newspaper, but he also ogled women. He tried not to do this when his wife was next to him, but sometimes he couldn’t help it. She never admonished him for noticing other women, but she did ask him not to ogle.

  The elderly man said he was eating a sandwich his wife had made, ham on rye, when he saw a team of lifeguards run into the water. At the time, he didn’t even realize his wife had gone swimming. He’d lost track of her. Sometimes she’d go to the concession stand or the ladies’ washroom or she’d shop the stores along the boardwalk.

  But it was his wife they dragged to shore. He watched them try to revive her, those skinny teenage boys. He watched them beat her chest and blow into her mouth.

  He said he hasn’t visited the beach since. He said it doesn’t matter, that wherever he goes his wife’s ghost follows him.

  The young lady said she was sorry this happened. She said, You poor thing.

  She tried listening to the elderly man’s story, but found that she started thinking about her uncle and hoped she wouldn’t have to be the one that fed him today.

  The man says, Yesterday I got nothing done, either. I also had a list. I went around the house with a pencil and pad.

  The friend says, Is that right?

  The man says, I wouldn’t lie to you.

  The friend says, What was on the list?

  The man says, I can’t remember. I accomplished nothing, is the bottom line. I got sidetracked.

  The friend says, These things happen.

  The man says, I had plans. I know that much. I set goals for the day.

  The friend says, You’re human.

  The man says, I think I was supposed to call the landscaper.

  The friend says, The yard looks good.

  The man says, I think I was to call the landscaper but the phone rang and I forgot.

  The friend says, That’s what I said earlier.

  The man says, Did you?

  The friend says, Who called?

  The man says, Wasn’t it you?

  The friend says, Did I call you yesterday?

  The man says, I can’t remember.

  The friend says, Neither can I.

  Neither called the other yesterday.

  They did speak on the telephone two days ago, and this is when they made plans to get together this Sunday.

  It’s unclear if either spe
nt any time on the telephone yesterday. They’re not intentionally lying to each other, though.

  It’s unclear what prompted the men to lose track of each other. It’s possible one felt betrayed or forsaken by the other. If such is the case, it probably involved a miscommunication, a letter lost in the mail, a message that was never returned.

  It’s just as likely that one or the other was busy for those four or five years and never thought of getting in touch.

  The man says, The weather is a popular topic of conversation with people.

  His friend looks at him, confused. He pulls a silver case out of his pocket, removes a toothpick and places it in his mouth.

  The man says, The weather is a popular topic of conversation with people.

  The friend says, Who was talking about the weather?

  The man says, You were. You said you watch it from behind your windows.

  The friend says, I said that an hour ago.

  The man says, I was listening to you. The friend says, That’s nice of you.

  Each man takes a sip of beer. Both bottles are almost empty and soon they’ll be ready for new ones.

  Neither has made a move toward the bottle of unopened whiskey.

  The man says, Nine times out of ten, when someone changes the subject, they change it to weather. Yesterday it was cold.

  The friend says, Yesterday it rained.

  The man says, Yesterday there was a great wind.

  The friend says, I was inside all day yesterday.

  The man says, It was cold, take my word for it. People took pleasure in telling each other this. Boy, it’s cold out. I heard them. Otherwise, they took comfort in telling each other this. It is hard to tell sometimes with people.

  The friend says, People always need confirmation, assurance. Comfort and cold.

  The man says, I don’t know what people take or what they need.

  The friend says, The weather is always like the weather here and everyone knows it.

  The man says, Still, people are like this with each other. They are like, is it cold outside or is it me? Is it cold enough for you, or is it me?

  The friend says, You can separate people into two camps. The ones who ask questions that end with or is it me and those who don’t.

  The man says, I agree.

  Sitting behind the young lady and elderly man on the bus, who by now had concluded their conversation, was a middle-aged man on his way to work. Every time this middle-aged man takes the bus there is a woman next to him or almost next to him; every time she is beautiful or close to beautiful, with hair and hands and havoc all cobbled together, with too much skin showing, exposed and beckoning. She’ll have a skirt that stops mid- thigh and her legs are folded one over another or crossed at the ankle. And the middle-aged man is a victim or thinks of himself as a victim, an innocent, hollow and helpless, with other things to do, other responsibilities, on this very bus to work, to go earn a living, to provide for the family, for the wife and children safe at home in front of a fire, the picture of domesticity. And he’ll get off at his stop and walk to work along streets littered with these selfsame beautiful women coming and going, off to work themselves, to shops and schools, to lunch dates with other women, maybe not quite as beautiful but maybe even more beautiful, where they discuss matters having both everything and nothing to do with anything.

  The middle-aged man realizes that the key is resignation, surrender, acknowledging the comedy and futility. He knows he has to keep his head down on the bus and on the streets so he can go teach children basic civility, comportment, citizenship, whatever it is he is supposed to do for the children, reading and writing and the theory of everything, up there in front of them, on the board. Today children we discuss times tables and fractal geometry, tomorrow it’s subjective predicates and semiotics and no this will not be on the midterm, and in next week’s faculty meeting he’ll have to address the absences and truancy, the poor attendance records, basic disinterest and fundamental indifference so that it reminds him of the one joke he has memorized, the one he tells students sometimes though most never get it, maybe some chuckle out of reflex, but it only serves to prove a greater point, the one that goes like this:

  They asked the principal what was the main problem with the students here, ignorance or apathy, and she answered, I don’t know and I don’t care.

  He wants to tell his colleagues this joke during the meeting but he decides against it. Instead he waits for the bell to go off so he can go back to the bus so he can go home and so he is on the bus keeping his head down, exhausted and drained, hopeless but for hope, no place for civility or comportment, no place for citizenry. And it’s back home for a night of quiet contemplation or obliteration, for erasure, to pour one drink after another after another, for that hour-long shower before bed, for the sweet oblivion of a dreamless sleep, this he thinks as he exits at the rear of the bus, as he keeps his head down and walks the streets toward home, past the beautiful women doing likewise and as he approaches his building he reaches inside his pocket, happening upon the loose change and dollar bills mingling there, the key, such as it is, unlocking the door to home and hearth.

  Neither principal has ever met this middle-aged man, nor will they.

  These three will go their entire lives without ever meeting.

  The shame of it is they’d all get along and become great friends. That is, if the man had the ability to make new friends, which he doesn’t.

  The friend says, That I like it cold and damp is of no importance to anyone. Of course, this only matters when I do make it out of the house.

  The man says, When people say, Isn’t it cold, I move my head up and down to indicate confirmation, assurance.

  The friend says, When I am inside and looking out the window I sometimes listen to the forecasts. I think they are better at it than they used to be. They tell you what’s going to happen next and why it’s going to happen. There’s always a front on the move, a system approaching.

  The man says, It’s always something.

  The friend says, The local news channels all do the weather at the same time, so you have to be fast clicking back and forth. This I am good at. Even my wife, Janice, says I’m good at this. It is perhaps my greatest skill.

  The man says, I thought you were looking out the window.

  The friend says, I am.

  The man says, How can you click back and forth while looking out the window?

  The friend says, I’m versatile.

  The man says, I am the same way.

  The friend says, There’s a television in every room and I always have it on. The first thing I do when I walk into a room is turn on the television. I always have the remote control on me so I can click back and forth.

  The man says, Sounds confusing.

  The friend says, It isn’t for a grown man. They almost always agree, the forecasters.

  The man says, In this way, they are like most people.

  By now both men are drinking fresh beers and the whiskey bottle is open.

  By now the man remembers this isn’t a good idea. It’s not a good idea for his friend to be over, drinking in the middle of the day, here at the kitchen table in his own house, the one he shares with his wife, who is out now doing something with other people but who will return soon enough.

  It’s not a good idea for them to have dinner together later.

  He thinks about saying this out loud, but decides against it.

  One is drinking his whiskey straight while the other has his mixed with soda.

  It is not important which is which.

  Both men will drink whiskey straight and mixed with soda depending on how they feel. There is no discernible pattern to their drinking habits in this regard.

  The car is still outside. It hasn’t moved.

  What the man doesn’t know is that the car has, in fact, been abandoned.

  The man isn’t sure how long the car has been out there. If he had to guess he’d guess less than a w
eek. He’d be wrong, however, because the car has been there for almost two weeks now.

  Whiskey is a distilled alcoholic beverage made from fermented grain mash. Various grains, which may be malted, are used for different varieties, including barley, corn, rye, and wheat. Whiskey is typically aged in wooden casks, generally made of charred white oak.

  It is possible that distillation was practiced by the Babylonians in Mesopotamia in the second millennium BCE, with perfumes and aromatics being distilled, but this is subject to uncertain and disputed interpretation of evidence. The earliest certain chemical distillations were by Greeks in Alexandria in the first century CE, but these were not distillations of alcohol. Written records of distillation in Arabic begin in the ninth century, but again these were not distillations of alcohol. Distilling technology passed from the medieval Arabs to the medieval Latins, with the earliest records in Latin in the early twelfth century.

  The earliest records of the distillation of alcohol are in Italy in the thirteenth century, where alcohol was distilled from wine. An early description of the technique was given by Ramon Llull. Its use spread through monasteries, largely for medicinal purposes, such as the treatment of colic and smallpox.

  The man says, I watch a lot of television, too, and can give you a run for your money.

  The friend says, Perhaps I can get a job in television.

  The man says, Doing what?

  The friend says, I’m not sure.

  The man says, Perhaps you can be a critic.

  The friend says, I don’t want to criticize anyone whose job it is to make television. I wouldn’t want to criticize producers or directors, writers or actors. They are all geniuses to me, even the ones who are bad.

  The man says, You think that’s true?

  The friend says, I do, and, Who the hell am I to criticize those people?

  The man says, You’re right, who the hell are you?

  The friend is a man who has height and weight like millions of others. He’s older now than he was and he still likes to sing in the shower and he likes to shower often, which he’ll do several times throughout the day. If he bothers to get dressed in the morning or early afternoon he’ll put on trousers and a collared shirt and always a pair of brown leather shoes and sometimes that crusty bowler that he wears tilted down toward his left eye, askew. Women have always taken to him and still do, including his new wife, Janice.