First Contact

From the back of the bus, she sees one man knocking his head into the glass - slowly, but steadily. His shoulders are taut, bunched into his neck, stressed. Something catches his attention, or perhaps he's thought of something. He turns suddenly and looks out the window as if searching for something in the distance. She sees his reflection in the window. His brow is furled, lips pursed. He leans his forehead into the glass. He closes his eyes and when he does, a tear gets squeezed out.
A question asked of herself and then an idea. She pulls out her journal and starts writing.
What is it that we look for? What is it that drives us past madness, past despair, towards hope? And what of those who've lost their way?
And then a bump on the freeway and she looses her train of thought. She looks over the questions she started with and tries to remember where she was going with them, tries to remember if she had answers or just more questions. She holds her pen, poised over paper, but nothing comes. Just like that they're gone, all those words, forgotten or lost or misplaced on sheets of notepad lost to the wind. Where do all those words go? Perhaps they dissolve back into the collective unconscious like salt water to the sky.
They are off the freeway now, back on city streets. The bus stops more frequently now and steadily, more passengers get on. The seats fill up fast and soon the aisles are crowded with suits and skirts, arms raised, clinging to the railing. Sardines. She watches them sway with the momentum of the bus like some strange kelp forest ballet. All this intimacy coupled with all this anonymity. What a strange place this world has become.
And they all look forward, they all avoid eye contact. But she does the opposite. She looks at them all, one by one. She follows their gaze, guesses at what they are looking at, what they might be looking for, what they might be thinking of. Blank stares, all around. What is it that we look for? She looks for him - the one she had seen earlier and he is still squeezed up next to the window. Pressed upon by an older lady reading the paper.
His gaze is different from that of the others. While most have vacant stares, hypnotized wall eyes, he seems to have focus. It's hard to pinpoint the physical characteristic that makes up the difference between the two - it's not something tangible, not something that fits into words easily. It's not something one can point out, but it's obvious nevertheless.
The lady next to him turns the page and accidentally elbows him. Without even turning towards him she whispers an apology and reads on. He hardly seems to have noticed but then he starts banging his head again, slower this time.
She can't understand it but she feels a strange affinity with this man, as if they share something. She knows it's irrational, strange, careless, even dangerous, but she continues to stare at him as if looking long enough into the strands and the part of his hair will reveal his secrets to her. She tries not to stereotype but she believes that everyone's appearance is a kind of code. The way she sees it, everyone chooses to dress and to look a certain way and that choice, however casual or unconscious, says something about that person. It's not something as simple or concrete as suit equals power or shirt equals slacker. A suit with a tie that's too bold, too powerful for the wearer implies a kind of compensation, a kind of insecurity while a worn shirt with the right print can suggest a creative mind, an independent spirit, but at the same time a shirt with one of those anti-social phrases like, "I'm so glad I'm not in your shoes," speaks of a cheap kind of rebellion, someone who wants to rage against the world not to change things, but because being against something is easier than being for something in a world where people think faith is one step away from madness.
This one, this guy. She tries to read him but it's difficult. He wears a black, long sleeve shirt with a blue, striped tie. It's hard to tell from here but the edges of this collar seem frayed.