Identity Stop

     Idiot. Immature brat. Selfish pig. Ugly cow. Their words echoed around my head as I ran down the block. I brushed away the evidence of my pain and gulped at the air. I couldn’t let them see the effect of their words or how their joke failed.

     Thunder rumbled in the dark clouds, a command to unleash the rains. I sighed as the drops seeped through my clothes. Now I’d be a wet, stupid, immature, disgusting cow. 

     I doubted they’d wait for me, which meant I needed to take the bus home. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and trudged the two blocks to the nearest stop. I sank onto the bench and hugged myself, a sopping wet mess.

     “Don’t cry like a baby,” the silky little voice murmured in my mind, “now that you know the truth you can face reality.”

     “Another’s opinion isn’t truth,” countered the rational part of my brain.

     “Truth is what everyone agrees is fact. If all your friends agree, then…” the velvet voice let the implication hang, “Besides, you don’t have a date to prom, you have acne and frizzy hair, and you still sleep with stuffed animals.”

     “High school is hardly the most important era of your life,” my mother’s words echoed from my memory.

     “Parents always downplay the negative experiences of kids. To acknowledge your pain means they failed in their parenting.”

     “They didn’t have to endure what I am,” I muttered.

     “And what’s that?”

     I jumped. An elderly gentleman sat at the opposite end of the bus stop shelter. Judging by the old-style hat, big glasses, and hooked cane, he had to be over a hundred years old. He gave me a warm smile. I grimaced back and turned my focus to the puddle growing at my feet.

     “I’d guess you're a high schooler with more potential than you realize.”

     I shrugged and pulled out my phone. Why did old people always want to talk?

     “Sometimes talking to a stranger is easier than talking to someone you know.”

     “Yeah, right,” I muttered.

     The old man leaned forward, “A stranger can offer an objective opinion.”

     “A stranger can also stuff you in a van or bury you in the woods.”

     “Well, my arthritis always flares up in bad weather and my doctor says I’m lucky to be able to hold a cane and shuffle my way to the bus stop.” He grinned, “I think you could take me.”

     I sized him up. He was probably right. Besides, I doubted he could cause much trouble in the seven minutes left till the bus arrived. 

     “I’m a senior.”

     “So what about you is so horrible?”

     “I’m…” the words stuck in my throat. What could I say? He didn’t want to hear my sob story. I looked away, “I’m not really good at anything.”

     “I’d wager you’re pretty good at hiding.”

     I quirked an eyebrow at him, “I’m horrible at hiding. As a kid, I always lost hide-and-go-seek.”

     He chuckled, a soft musical sound, “No, I don’t mean physically. We all practice hiding now and then, but I find those who are constantly hurting are usually the best at it.”

     I stared at him. Old people never made any sense. 

     “Whatever,” I folded my arms and leaned back.

     “Perhaps a better question is what do you want to be?”

     One disadvantage of public transportation, you couldn't escape people who wouldn’t leave you alone. 

     “He’s just being friendly,” encouraged my better side. 

     “You mean obnoxious and pushy,” spat my sulky mood.

     “He’s probably lonely. What could one conversation hurt?” 

     “I want what everyone wants,” I answered, “to be rich and successful. Someone people want to know.”

     “Someone famous?” He tilted his head with the question, eyes sparkling with mischief.

     “No, well, maybe,” I looked out into the gloom, searching for the words to explain. “I mean, isn't that what everyone wants? Then people would respect me and be nice to me. Be my friend.”

     He nodded as I spoke. 

     “People would listen,” he agreed, “and everyone would want to be your friend. But I doubt many of those famous people would agree they receive much respect or kindness from the tabloids. And, I expect they frequently question if their friends like them or the benefits of being near them.” 

     I ground my teeth. “Fine! I just want to be something people like.”

     “By that definition, I would be a panda bear, a sunny beach, or a chicken taquito,” he chuckled and grinned.

     I suppressed a growl. Great, a comedian.

     “You’re just like them! Twisting everything I say and dismissing it like I’m some stupid child!” I let the venom I felt saturate my words.

     The old man sighed, “My apologies, I just wanted to help.”

     I rolled my eyes and glared out into the rain.

     “To me,” he leaned back and clasped his hands in his lap, “you’re just a stranger at a bus stop. To your family, you are, undoubtedly, someone quite remarkable. But, it doesn’t matter. We can wait in silence if you’d rather.” 

     The silence stretched. His words snared in my mind.

     “So I’m nothing but a relationship?” I challenged, “I’m defined by who I am to others?”

     “Do you think your mother ever stops being your grandmother’s child? There is a reason parents say ‘you’ll always be my baby.’” He grinned.

     “So who I am never changes. Great.” I slumped against the shelter wall and kicked at my puddle.

     He leaned forward on his cane, “I’m saying there’s more to who you are than what you look like or how you act or your relationships. Some aspects change as you grow through life, some are constant. It’s all a part of the picture.” He poked his cane toward me. “Who you are, ultimately, is the finished portrait. It isn’t just one aspect of your life. In limiting yourself to one or two descriptors, you miss out on everything else you were created to be.”

     “Doesn’t that mean your identity is always changing?”

     He grinned. “Thank goodness! I’d hate living in a world where I couldn’t change. A place without grace or redemption for when I look in the mirror and don’t like what I see.”

     I glared at him. I hated riddles and this one threatened to give me a migraine.

     “I’m saying,” he gave an exaggerated sigh, “If you recognize the whole of who you are, you have a defense against what others say you should be.”

     The bus rattled to a stop in front of me and the doors squeaked open. I sat numb, as the old man’s words rattled around my brain.

     “You getting on?” 

     The bus driver’s rough voice startled me. I glanced at the old man, but he was gone. I stood and spun on the spot.

     The driver frowned. “You getting on or not?”

     I leapt up the steps and slid into the first available seat.

     “Add crazy to the list!” taunted my cynical side.

     “Or…” a timid voice inside me prompted.

     “Some have entertained angels unawares,” the old verse whispered through my mind. 

     As the bus swayed, I searched my reflection, seeing for the first time hints of the masterpiece within.