|
The Ride
In the Southern United States lives a species of tortoise called the ‘gopher tortoise’. These large tortoises are so–named because they dig boroughs in the ground to live in. Their massive claws can dig a hole into the sandy soil at a speed bound to impress any observer. Their natural lifespan is roughly equivalent to a human’s, 30–40 years in the wild, more than 100 in captivity (the highest being around 150 years). Sadly, they are now an endangered species. There are many threats facing the gopher tortoise, whose boroughs aerate the soil and provide homes to other animals. Any work describing the animal will list these. One threat is having gasoline poured down their holes and being set on fire by people trying to rid an area of rattlesnakes, known to claim boroughs left behind by the harmless tortoises. Being struck by vehicles is another threat. The major threat to their continued survival is seldom mentioned, yet — overshadows all others. You see, they live solitary lives — that is to say, one borough, one tortoise (though each tortoise may dig from 3 to 20 tunnels). The only contact they have with another of their kind is when they mate. Their mating ‘ritual’ is simplistic (to say the most), and mating cannot occur without it. The ritual consists of two tortoises bumping into one another. That’s it. Of course, when two tortoises so meet, they must be of the opposite sex to successfully mate. The ‘bump’ is blind chance. No senses — smell, sound, or sight — guide two gopher tortoises to one another. Therein lies the problem. Before the land was settled there were many of these tortoises. As land was excavated for civilization, the pockets of land available for the tortoises not only shrank; they were split apart by new construction, and then became farther apart. Simply put, the species is going extinct because they bump into one another less frequently. He sat on the inside seat on the right hand side of the Greyhound bus looking out the window and watching the side of the highway sail past. It was a long journey. For the umpteenth time he scolded himself for not having brought a book to wile away the time. So instead of escaping into the thoughts of others he was alone with his own mind. Hours later the bus arrived at a bus depot in the middle of nowhere. It was a flat building with a diner and a parking lot full of Greyhounds. Just as flat were the miles of barren land surrounding it. The passengers departed for the half–hour stop and welcomed the return of feeling to the lower half of their bodies. He went inside intent on finding a book. Any book. He’d looked at all 20 or so of them, and was just about to give up and grab some magazines instead, when the announcement came to re–board. He snatched the first book he touched, and without even looking at it, put 10 bucks on the counter. “Keep the change,” he said and hurried back to his seat. Shortly afterward a woman sat down next to him in the seat that had been vacant up until then. She did not appear to notice and did not return, the smile he showed her. The bus rolled out and once again he was on the way toward his destination. He looked at the reading material. It turned out to be a childrens book, one of the Goosebumps Series. He chose to nap instead. A baby on the bus, sensing that he must be about to try to sleep, started crying. He returned to watching the highway zip past. As one tends to do in these situations, he periodically stole glances at the woman next to him, while pretending to look out the windows on the other side. And he too would feel her looking at him, then turn and see she was merely looking past him out the window. Finally he could stand it no more. When he caught her looking past him he spoke up. “Excuse me… do you travel by bus much?” he asked. She started slightly at his voice. “Uh no, first time,” she replied just beyond impolite terseness. “Ahhh,” he said to fill the air. He knew it did not as the sound was leaving his mouth. So, “Well it’s rather boring I must say. I’ve been on this bus for hours — the highlight thus far was the stop we made back there in the middle of nowhere.” “Middle of nowhere…” she repeated. “How many times I have called it the same.” “I beg your pardon?” “That is — was — my home. It is indeed the middle of nowhere.” “Oh, I meant no harm… I mean… “ “No — it’s alright.” she rushed. “As I said, I’ve often called it by the same name.” “So this is your first trip away from home?” he asked. “Yes. And maybe the last.” “How so?” “All my life I’ve lived there. In the middle of nowhere. Since I left high school that bus station has been there, really it’s the only thing — the only place that offered a way out.” “I see,” he sympathized. “I’m not sure you can,” she said. “To see the buses roll in with people from Somewhere, make their short stop at Nowhere, then continue on to Somewhere Else… no one comes to stay. It makes one feel… left behind.” She realized at this point she was thinking out loud and said more concretely, “So I decided to leave. To go Somewhere Else. The end of this line.” The silence accentuated both the blurring speed at which the shoulder of the highway zipped past, and the stillness of the horizon, where nothing moved. “Leaving family behind?” “No.” She stiffened. “My mother passed away 3 months ago. I’ve no other family there.” “I’m sorry.” “No… don’t be. I really only stayed as long as I did for her. Now. Now I can leave… but say — here I am blabbing on and on about myself. How about you? Where are you going?” “The end of the line also,” he said smiling. “Where are you from?” she asked. “The Outskirts of Somewhere.” She didn’t push. “What are your plans once you reach there” he asked. “Well, first I’ll find an apartment, then a job, then… well — then I’ll see.” “What kind of work do you do?” “Bookkeeping.” “Oh, then you should have little trouble finding work,” he encouraged. “How about you?” she asked. “What kind of work do you do?” “Odd jobs mostly... whatever I get presented with,” he answered. “Handyman? I would have guessed you were a professor.” He grinned. “Appearances can be deceiving, but thank you for the compliment.” She looked at him chagrined. They rode in silence then, each of them deep into their own private thoughts. Neither felt the need to explain their silence. He observed the seemingly endless stream of nothingness he and the other passengers were traveling through, like it was a microcosm of life itself. The people on board the bus physically boxed in together, straining to not touch one another. Pretending to be outside the bus. Out in that empty expanse being traveled through, thought the observer. Perhaps they like I, he thought, are afraid to call attention to themselves and be found out. Like the land rushing by, devoid of distinguishable landmarks. Certainly much of the foliage evolved into anonymity to keep herbivores from being overly attracted to them. Survival. Not of the fittest. Survival of the least noticed. “Do you know what it’s like to be alone?” asked the woman next to him suddenly. “I do,” he said. He realized his answer left her no opening to continue. So, “I imagine you have had times you felt alone where you come from.” “Yes… it’s like… not touching anyone, not being touched.” He nodded. “Oh, I don’t mean in a sexual way,” she added quickly. “I mean, after a while you feel so… intangible. I’m sorry, I’m rambling and probably disturbing you.” “Not at all,” he told her. She was reaching out for his touch. He realized that. She wanted to know she was alive. The baby started crying again… perhaps for the same reason. “You hope to be rid of loneliness once you are in a large city, huh?” he asked her. “Yes… I mean I know that people can still be lonely when they are surrounded by others, but the chances of bumping into someone… who…” “Cares?” “Yes. Someone who cares,” she said. A tear rolled down her cheek. “You know,” he started, “people like you…” He paused and used his hand to wipe the tear from her cheek. “…like us — we are told we think too much.” “Perhaps we do,” she said as she smiled slightly at his touch. “The alternative. Do not think. Do not reach. Accept solitude. To be sure — I don’t mean physical solitude. One can always attend a party or an event and be surrounded by others. But by not thinking, by not reaching, by not touching… no one will care.” “Then they may as well go live where I come from,” she sighed. “Most aren’t aware of their solitude, I guess,” he replied. The bus rolled on. The gopher tortoise has no knowledge of what is becoming of its kind. The walkabouts to find new locations for boroughs, driven in some part by the instinctive need to bump into another of its kind, still happen. The tunnels are still dug. The tortoise goes about doing what the species does. One day the gopher tortoise may no longer exist. The space between each tortoise will have become too great. The anonymous foliage… vegetation… will survive. |