When I first graduated from college, I got a job at a business on the other side of Atlanta from where my parents lived—and of course, I was still living with my parents. They had a house in what had been the suburbs years ago, and was now just an continuance of Metro Atlanta. I was blessed enough to find a bus route, that picked me up blocks away from where my parent's lived and dropped me off virtually in front of my office door. I caught the bus every morning at six fourteen.
The length of time on the bus seemed to expand every day those first couple of weeks. I started off with a book, but the bouncing wheels on the bus made it difficult on me to read the small print and not get nauseous. So, I started playing those simple, but addictive games that came on my cell phone—it only took the first month for me to loose interest. That's when I decided to dig out my Gameboy—and that's when I met Dustin.
"Want to hook up sometime?"
I looked up toward the voice and giggled. The man who I would come to know as Dustin was holding out an extension cable to connect our Gameboys together.
The first thing I noticed about Dustin was his eyes. It was an absolute shock to look up into those baby-blues, rich in both color and emotion, which was, at the moment, flirtatious. The second thing I noticed was his smile, both disarming and genuine. It was while before I noticed anything else. Except his voice, of course. It was rough enough not to be velvety smooth, but not polished enough to cover his northern roots. Not even the spinning shrill from my Gameboy, signaling death to the hero, caught my attention.
"What?" he asked while she gapped at him. He sat down on the edge of the seat beside me and I shifted over to offer him more room. "You think that's a lame pick up line?"
"Is it a pick-up line?"
"No, it's a hook-up line."
We both laughed and when he offered his cables, I allowed him to plug his bright green one into my yellow. We talked for a few minutes. He introduced himself as Dustin Payne, and I told him my name—Gretchen Stone. Our conversation covered the limited nuances of favorite video games, highest scores, and childhood video game rivalries.
Then he turned his Gameboy on.
"I've been watching you for about a week--get so absorbed on your games. It occurred to me that you've come to think yourself invincible," when the game popped on, he matched start first which gave him control of the round, "I intend to beat you."
"Oh really?" I asked, then proceeded to make the first jump.
I had been watching Gretchen for sometime now. Gretchen. It was odd to have a name for her face. For some time she'd been imprinted in my mind as the video-game girl on the bus who I looked forward to watching every morning. Now she was Gretchen. A beautiful woman with spirals of auburn curls that were never set free for her early commute from a pony tail, french braid or twist. She had emerald eyes of the softest green, framed by long lashes, and freckles that danced across her nose when she smiled.
Every morning when I got on the bus, she was there, one of fifteen to twenty quiet passengers in the early morning run. For weeks she had been sitting to herself, like the other people around her. At this hour, it was usually the same people, but they got off quickly, exchanged for other familiar faces as we continued down the road. But I always noticed Gretchen. And it was more than her intense concentration on video games, more then her extended library of expression—though each delighted me.
I found that I liked sitting close to her on the narrow bus seat, watching her laugh and feign consternation over our friendly battle.
I hadn't played with my Gameboy in years, and calling my parents in Michigan to see if they could find it seemed reaching, considering that mine was one of the old black and while models made for one player only. It just didn't suit my purposes. I was already on a tight budget, but I decided to suffer through a few weeks of sandwiches and mac-in-cheese. I bought one, a bright green joyful one that reminded me of her, along with a few happy-go-lucky two player games that seemed to be her passion.
I'm sure we were a sight. A man, approaching thirty, and a woman, mid-twenties, both dressed for the office, huddled over hand-held video games and passionately blind to the rest of the world as we competed.
"So, who's this guy who's got you so cheerful, lately?"
It was the smoke inflicted voice of Wanda, my cubical partner. She was a wonderful woman, not quite twice my age. She smoked about half a pack a day, and was slowly decreasing her amount. Her hair was currently died jet black. She wore turquoise shell reading glasses, perched on the tip of her nose. And she always smelled like roses. She said it was her way of having her own personal rose garden.
We got along well, despite the fact that I had been promoted over her within a few weeks on the job. What I liked most about her was her honesty and her passion for God. The way she challenged and encouraged me everyday—and encouraged me to do the same with her.
When I said earlier that I was blessed, I was also talking about Wanda.
This morning we were working side by side going over a chart of numbers that would be presented in the later meeting. 0ur shared cubical barely held a desk on either side for each of us. Usually, we sat side by side and worked from hers while we stacked mine with our materials. I looked up when she asked the question and asked, "What guy?"
"The one who walked you to work this morning?"
"He didn't walk me to work," I mumbled, turning back to my papers. "Not really. He just—he wouldn't let me forfeit and so I missed my stop. He said the only gallant thing to do was to walk back with me."
And it wasn't the first time, I thought to myself. He had started helping me miss my stop more and more lately. The mornings were all the time that we had with each other. We never met outside of our early bus route. He worked later than I did. "He's just a friend."
"Is he now?" Wanda leaned on her elbows and peered at me over her glasses. "And is that a blush I see?"
"I'm not blushing," I said and turned away from her to hide the smile.
"Is he a Christian?"
The smile died away slowly as Wanda's question cut to the point. I shrugged and glanced back at her, "I don't know. That's why I said it wasn't serious."
"Honey, you've got serious written in your eyes," Wanda placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You're so young, baby, and there's a big world out there with many wonderful things. Not all of them are good. Promise me you'll be careful with you're heart."
Her words pierced right into the uncertainty, but I wasn't sure if the uncertainty was in me, or in Dustin. "I don't know if I know how."
"You rob a seven year old?"
I turned to look at my roommate, Jessie, who had just plopped down on the sofa and was pilfering through my briefcase, or at least looking at the top of it. He was dressed in his normal attire of jeans and a tee-shirt. We had been roommates since our sophomore year in college. It had been divine intervention that we had both ended up with jobs in Atlanta. Jessie had been the person who had brought me to know God.
I chuckled at his question and turned back to my computer, "No."
"I didn't know you had a Gameboy," said my wonderful, I have yet to grow up, roommate. "Hey. I love this game."
Seconds later the familiar sound crackled on, and for a minute, I thought Jessie was lost in the game. Then his mind warped back, as usual, into our conversation, "When did you pick this hobby up?"
"Couple of weeks ago. The bus ride's really long."
"Huh. I never would have guessed."
The conversation was over, I thought with relief when muffled sounds from the game drifted across the living room. I was saved from Jessie's teasing, which could be constant and merciless.
"There's a girl," I said suddenly, surprising myself. "Well, not a girl, really. I mean, she is a girl, but it's not what you think—"
The sounds stopped and for a moment I thought I heard Jessie's mind launching into overdrive, knowing he was bound to give me a hard time.
"Does this have anything to do with the fact that you, Mr. Straight-laced, read a book Dustin Payne have started playing video games geared toward elementary school kids?"
"Look, it's not Sesame Street," I said, turning around in my seat.
"Who is she?" he asked.
"The girl with the curly red hair and the yellow Gameboy."
"Are you saying that I have to get up at five in the morning to find out?"
"No, I'm saying . . . I don't know who she is. Well, I do, but I don't know who she is to me. We haven't, exactly, talked about serious things."
"Do you know her name?"
"Of course."
"Then do you know if she's saved?" At my silence, Jessie shrugged, but his look was pointed. "Then you don't know who she is, not really."
I took Jessie's words to heart, and for the first time committed my relationship with Gretchen to God. It was the first time in the weeks that we had known each other that I had even thought of what I had with her as a relationship. I knew it wasn't love, but I also understood that it could easily grow into something like love, and Jessie was right. I didn't truly know Gretchen.
Now, when you meet a girl in church, you can make the assumption that she's a Christian, or at least in an atmosphere to become one. I had no idea with Gretchen. She was a good person, with a gentle, if buoyant personality, but that wasn't the same thing. So in committing my relationship with Gretchen to God, I was also asking Him for the wisdom to either find out that she was a Christian or lead her to Christ.
But the opportunity didn't seem to come, or maybe I was just resisting whatever change would happen because of a conversation about salvation. I saw Gretchen almost every work day for the next three weeks, and we seemed to be growing closer together. We both had business trips and days when we didn't ride the bus, but for the most part, we shared the morning ride. On several occasions, we found ourselves talking with each other, the Gameboys forgotten. Our conversations had moved from video game history and childhood friends, to something that seemed more like the present and future.
Then one day, my boss called me into his office and announced that I had a promotion. The job included a furnished apartment on within walking distance because of my need to get to the office in a hurry if a problem needed to be fixed. That night, Jessie and I talked about it, and he agreed to move across town with me. The next morning I climbed on the bus, dreading the fact that I would have to tell Gretchen, prepared to tell her we could start having lunch together.
She was gone.
For the next two days, I climbed the steps onto the bus, praying that she would be in her usual spot. She was not. What had been the best moment of my day, was now simply a long, miserable ride on a bus crowded with strange faces, sitting on slick, though cracked leather seats, and having time to think.
I went to her office building, looked her up in the directory and learned that her father was in critical condition after a stroke. She was on leave for a few weeks, but no one would tell me how I could get in touch with her. I needed to talk with her. I was leaving for training that would last two weeks.
It was then that I found out something I didn't know about Gretchen.
Her parents had an unlisted phone number. And I had never asked her for it.
I spent a week with my dad in ICU and two more with him as he went into rehab. His health was deteriorating badly. Everyone seemed to talk about how good he looked, and how he was getting better. I just don't think anyone believed it. Within a few weeks time, my dad was looking more and more like a stranger to me.
The waiting room became a second home, an old chair in the corner by the window a second family. The television was a nuisance, but the only comfort available. And the long walk between the waiting room and my dad's room became a nightmare.
As I came out of my cloud, I tried to call Dustin after idly flipping through the phone book and discovering that his number was indeed listed. The first day, I called too early. He was obviously at work. I didn't leave a message then, or the next night when I tried again. Four days after my first call, his number had been disconnected.
I had no one to really talk too. I was scared. I was loosing my dad. There were days when he would look right at me and I could tell he didn't know who I was. And my mom wasn't sleeping. She walked the halls of the hospital and spent hours in the chapel. I had so much time to myself, so much time to pray and I didn't seem know how anymore.
Three weeks past before I returned to work. It didn't surprise me when Dustin did not get on the bus, but it was still lonely. I didn't know what to do, or what to feel. Playing games no longer seemed worth while. The regulars around me pretty much left me alone. One of the stopped to tell me that Dustin had been looking for me while I was on leave and that he had been given a promotion.
Winter was rolling in and with it came a vicious cold. I started carrying around klenexes with lotion to combat my stuffed-up red nose, wearing gloves to warm me from the constant chill that I felt, and dozing on the bus after near sleepless nights. My dad was now at home even though he was not responding to the physical therapy. I prayed to forget Dustin and I prayed to feel number. I was afraid to feel anything. It wasn't long before I hit bottom.
I went to my room one night and cried as one hour past into the next, praying over feelings and worries and emotions that had built into a paralyzing pyramid. All the emotions I had not wanted to feel collided together inside. I fell into a troubled sleep and woke before my alarm clock went off.
I pulled myself slowly from where I had twisted myself into my sheets and sat up groggily. I looked across the room at the mirror that hung over my dresser. I looked awful. My cold and sleeplessness showed in the redness of my eyes. My face had on odd parlor, almost ghostly in the moonlight. The smile I feebly tried looked painful, mocking. I nearly hated myself.
It was too easy to curl back up into bed, finding comfort in my electric blanket or sneaking downstairs and curling up on the love seat with my grandmother's afghan. I was able to recognize the danger of depression. I reached over to the floor beside my bed and dug through the covers I had thrown off to find my Bible.
Turning on the bedside lamp, I dug in, looking first to my favorite book of Ruth, then to Mark. I read, fighting the sand-like feeling in my eyes until I drifted off to sleep to be awoken by my alarm.
I crawled out of purpose that morning, knowing I needed to do something about the emotions circling through my life. I got ready and left for work, catching the bus as usual at six-fourteen. On the way to work, I made a few decisions. First, I would retire my Gameboy and use the time on the bus to turn to God. Maybe I couldn't read the small print in my Bible, but I could pray, I could think of scripture and attempt to memorize small passages.
The second thing I decided was to try and get in touch with Dustin, if only to aquire his address and write him a letter to say goodbye. I needed closure. I rode past my stop and got off at Dustin's stop, crossing the street to the building where he worked. The receptionist pointed me to the tenth floor, to his old office.
I went, hoping the secretary could tell me something. I didn't find him, but I learned that he had only been promoted to a different position on a different floor . . . not to another city or state. I got on the elevator, feeling a little better, but fighting the questions that stabbed my heart. Where was Dustin? Had he been avoiding me? Had he forgotten me? Did our relationship mean so little to him?
Life was good. Over a month into my new job and I felt the energy of knowing I was where I wanted to be. I was working as a problem solver, really, meeting and talking with clients who were angry or upset over something, and I found it a blessing to be living close by. There was a disadvantages to hearing people's problem's all day long, but fixing the situation always left me feeling a little euphoric. Jessie called it the post-promotion syndrome.
I was working directly with Lorrie Bennett who shared my position. She was beautiful, with long brown hair, large brown eyes, and an outgoing, warm personality. She was a Christian, and an encouragement as well. I found myself spending more and more time with her as our jobs settled in together.
We were walking together from the conference room together after the morning staff meeting. She had her hand on my arm, feeling as comfortable with me as I was with her. When we turned the corner, I stopped. There was Gretchen, stepping onto the elevator. I opened my mouth to call out, only then realizing that all the air had rushed out of my system. Before I could get it back, Gretchen was gone.
I felt like such a fool. I had seen Dustin of course. He was with a beautiful woman and they were talking animatedly together, leaning close, her hand on his arm. The woman was tan, with tame hair framing her face. She nearly glowed. And I never had seen him looking so confident and self-assured. It made me realize how little I knew about him. Oh, I knew Dustin, the man I played games with on the bus, but I didn't know him in his world. I had never been asked to be part of it.
I ran. There's little else to say about that. I went back to work and buried myself in figures, thankful that he had not seen me.
Dustin leaned against the bus stop and waited impatiently for the bus. He hadn't understood how much he'd missed Gretchen until he'd seen her yesterday—he hadn't known how much he had come to care for her. He'd prayed for a long time last night, understanding his part in allowing their separation. He'd never had asked her about her salvation, had never put her eternity above those few, present moments they'd had together.
He'd asked for forgiveness, now he was ready to follow through. First eternity, he thought, then he would see about anything else.
He stepped on the bus at the back, and walked forward. That familiar cap of red hair eased part of the sickness in his heart. He stood over her, and looked down.
And he recognized the verses printed in large block letters on the cards she was holding. With his heart beating double time, he lowered himself into the seat beside her and watched her turn in surprise, before she noticed him.
"Dustin—" her voice cracked over her cold. The shock was evident in her eyes.
"You're memorizing scripture."
"Um," she glanced at the cards, "yeah . . . well, it's more fulfilling then video games. A better use of time, and the games weren't the same—"
It was as if God had opened a door on our relationship. I felt as if I was walking into sunshine. "Let's hook-up."
"Dustin—" she turned in surprise. "Like I said. I retired the video games."
"I'm not talking about video games. I'm talking about this," and realizing that the familiar crowd on the bus was earnestly watching, I leaned in close and captured her lips with mine. She fumbled a bit, but then gave in, her hands slipping up my chest to my shoulders.
"I've got a cold, Dustin," she said, leaning back, her voice breathless.
"Well, then I'll give you some warmth," I returned, and leaned in once more to capture her lips. I felt as if I was home.
"I've missed you so much," I said, leaning back and resting my forehead against hers. "And it's amazing . . . we have so much to talk about. So much that should have been said before. Are you free for lunch?"
Dustin was with me the night my dad died, sitting in that age-old hospital waiting room. I don't know what I would have done with out him. Not only was he a support, but he challenged me in my faith, reminding me to hold on when it was so hard to even think. He prayed for me, when I couldn't seem to find the words. He had strength eft to give to my mother.
We were married two months later, in the church we had found together on the other side of town near our jobs and the apartment we share together as man and wife. Pour Jessie was kicked out, but he took the opportunity well, and has entered a foreign missionary training program.
We still pocket our little boys, as we call them, from time to time, and hop the transit bus ... it doesn't matter where.
Oh, and by the way. The six-fourteen extension thing. My grandmother cross-stitched us a nice plague for a wedding gift and I learned, not only had I met my husband through an extension of palm-held video games, but also through the real 6:14 extension. Second Corinthians, 6:14.
"Do not be yoked with unbelievers. For what do righteousness and wickedness have in common? Or what fellowship can light have with darkness?"
Return to Elizabeth Delayne's Short Stories
