Ulysses is Alright with Me A new friend from the bus named Ulysses always tries to remember to not be angry at people for the terribleness in this world. I consider this as I work to untangle whose views and actions feel dangerous for me and the people I love. Ulysses and I are chatting about this and other things when our bus pulls up in front of St. Francis. The bus ramp deploys and we move out of the way for a man in a wheelchair who is having trouble aligning his wheels with the ramp. He has puked all over himself and the bus driver looks the other way, out the left window, pretends not to notice the trail of vomit. I am bewildered and Ulysses is calm. We go together to right the man’s wheels, ask if he’s okay. The man waves us off, disembarks, rushes towards St. Francis without engaging the crosswalk light, almost gets hit by a car. The bus ramp lifts, folds over a smear of vomit, and eight of us board. I see the vomit trail from where we stand to the space where the man was parked. I escape to the back of the bus, and I glower at the bus driver who still looks through the left window, waiting for everyone to finish boarding. He does not see me. He does not see anyone. Ulysses sees the vomit the rest of us are avoiding, pulls out a pair of nitrile gloves, asks the bus driver to hold on a minute, and then proceeds to clean up the mess with the rough paper towels at the front. He grabs a trash bag, and lets the bus driver know he’s dumping them in the bus stop trashcan. I see the bus driver nod and his shoulders soften. My shoulders also soften. I think: Ulysses is alright with me, and I tell him when I see him again: I am so happy we are on this bewildering ride together. Thank you for showing me that we can choose to be something else.
