Jerry

I leave the office just past 5pm with a destination and a preferred time of arrival in mind. I’ve got to be across town at an old building on the edge of the river within an hour, as I’m meant to be recording the discussion that’s taking place from 6pm. I use the internet to find the nearest transport that’ll take me to my desired location. The web page suggests that I catch a bus from a nearby main road, get off in the city and transfer to a ferry. With this plan in mind, I’m waiting at the bus stop, listening to some music toward which I must form an opinion and write about, for my job.

I’m thinking about the music and the bus being late and the traffic nearby and the twilight when a man walks up to the seat, speaking at me. I remove an earphone and ask him to repeat it.

“Was that the 470?” he asks, gesturing at the bus that just passed.
“No, that was the 475. The 470 is running late.”
“There’s one coming at 5.38.”
“Yeah, but the 5.18 bus hasn’t shown up.”
“Oh, the bastard sometime doesn’t show.”

I’m amused by his thick Scottish accent. My affection for that accent is second only to a strong, masculine Irish voice. He barely misses a beat in the conversation, and gestures to my shirt-and-jeans attire.

“So what are you, a student, I guess?”
“No, not any more.”
“Full-time work?”
“Yeah, more or less.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a freelance journalist.”
“Oh, is that like investigative journalism?”
“Kind of. I come up with story ideas and throw them at editors of various publications, and they give me a yes or no in response.”
“If they like it, they send you off to get that story.”
“Yeah, that’s how it works.”

By this point I’ve removed both earphones. The music continues playing, uncaring toward whether it has an audience or not. I’m intrigued by this stranger having a strong concept of what it means to be a journalist, and that he’s pursuing a strong line of questioning not out of courtesy, but genuine interest. It’s at this point when he begins surprising me even more.

He launches into a description of his job as a mineral engineer who inspects holes in the ground for big businesses, to determine whether they’re suitable for mining. I miss a few words due to his thick accent and the nearby traffic noise, but that’s how I understand it. He reveals that he’s 36 years old, single, earns a ‘considerable’ salary for his work, and that he’s done this job all around the world. My city is his favourite. I believe him. He suggests that I don’t know exactly how fortunate I am to be living here, and while he continues talking, I decide that he’s right.

The bus is totally late, and showing no sign of showing up. We both agree that I’m fucked in terms of my appointment, and that I’d be lucky to make it to the venue by half-six. I’m not too concerned, though this stranger seems to be. Perhaps he’s misread how important it is for me to be there in time. I’d like to be there by six – which is why I set out nearly an hour ahead of time to ensure I was there – but although I don’t tell him this, I’m starting to think that this conversation is more valuable to my life experience than missing the opening of a songwriting forum.

He’s still talking. I couldn’t stop him even if I wanted him to – which I don’t. He reveals that he’s about to tell me a story wherein he found happiness while experiencing sadness. I’m staring at him, listening, wondering what’s compelling him to speak so frankly. He tells me that his mother died two weeks ago, in his hometown of Barrhead, Scotland. Last weekend he flew to a southern capital city in an attempt to travel overseas directly, to try and make it to her funeral. As he arrived at the airport, he received notice that all international flights were cancelled, owing to the volcanic activity in Iceland. Dejected, he was flying home and began talking to the woman seated next to him, who he describes as “quite attractive”. He doesn’t describe their conversation mid-flight, but fast forwards to a phone call he received a few days ago. It was from the woman, who’d accessed the airline’s database – I’ve no idea how, and he doesn’t elaborate – in order to find this guy’s personal details. She was calling to ask him on a date.

“No way,” I reply, shocked at this unlikely string of events being related to me by a total stranger. “When are you seeing her?”
“This weekend. We’re having coffee at [the venue I’m intending to visit tonight]. A nice neutral venue, lots of people.. just a coffee.”

He relates little emotion when describing this story, though he is clearly fond of the woman despite her stalker-like tendencies. He acknowledges how odd it is for him to be elaborating on his “life story in five minutes”, though he simply states in response that it’s “just the kind of person I am”. I’m impressed. I realise that he’s only telling me this because he’s lonely. But not a desperate, needy kind of lonely. Instead, it’s a frank, honest exchange – at least on his part. I’ve said hardly anything in the time we’ve been sitting on this bench. He turns the topic once again to my appointment.

“Look, do you want me to pay for your taxi fare there?”
I stare blankly. “You’re serious?” I’m only asking to be polite; I know that he’s serious. He doesn’t seem the kind of man to make such an offer without an intention to follow through.
“Sure.”
“No, it’s fine. I don’t want to put you out.”

He accepts my dismissive response. He probably expected as much. But while we sit in momentary silence, staring in the same direction toward a bus that isn’t arriving, a taxi appears directly across from our seat. Its light is on. It’s vacant, and it’s stationary at traffic lights. He gestures toward it. I stand up. I get the taxi driver’s attention by acting out the question: “Can we jump in?” The driver nods, so we hurry over.

I can’t believe this is happening. I’m simply going with the flow, wondering where this will take me. I consider that this guy could be fucking insane and taking me back to his lair with untold acts in mind. Right now I’m like a child lured into a vehicle by the promise of candy, yet I’m entering into this situation as a mature adult with full awareness of what might perspire. This shit does not happen every day, so I’m just going with it.

As it turns out, the taxi ride is largely uneventful. The driver’s presence and my location in the backseat seem to kill the conversational chemistry that we had clocked up in the fifteen minutes we’d spent in each others’ presence. The driver is an immigrant, and a quiet one at that, so there’s little interest there. During the story about the woman on the plane, he mentioned the name Jerry. I take a stab.

“Your name’s Jerry, isn’t it?
“Yep.”
“What are you up to tonight, Jerry?”
“Well, besides meeting up with a friend at my place, nothing.”
“Cool.”
“Do you think I should just tell him to come to the venue?”
I’m initially flummoxed that he’d rely on my input for such a complex question – I don’t know anything about his friend, their likes or dislikes, or their previous plan – before I realise that hey, this is just the kind of guy that Jerry is.
“Sure,” I reply.

He calls his friend and tells him of the change in plans. There’s no problem. I get the feeling that Jerry doesn’t have many problems. And I don’t mean that facetiously; he clearly has his head screwed on straight. He’s an engineer, so he’s very logical. It seems that to him, things are black or white. Grey areas don’t figure into his calculations.

Despite the traffic, we make it to the venue with one minute to spare, no shit. According to the taxi’s clock, it’s 5.59. He’s enquiring whether I’m ready to make a quick exit into the venue; I respond, “Dude, I’m not in that big of a hurry. I’ll wait to walk with you.”

He pays the fare – $20.70 – and we walk together.

“Well, I did my best to get you here in time.”
“Jerry, your best is amazing.”

We walk into the venue. I point out the section of the building where I’m headed. He wishes me a good night. I offer my hand while thanking him sincerely. Without breaking stride, he shakes my hand and states it’s no problem. We part ways, strangers once more. It’s unlikely we’ll meet again, yet I’ve nothing but respect and admiration for Jerry. He’s a real man.