Back when I lived in Alaska around 2-3 years ago there was a bus stop I would always pass by on my trip to work. I worked at a far away industrial facility as a junior maintenance specialist, so far away that a trek through snowy hills, or even a drive, would be too much to bear for a weak-willed man like me. Luckily weak-willed men are often favored by technology, so a bus with the fiercest wheels imaginable, the most gregarious driver, and a whirr so loud it could wake up a village 10 miles away was always waiting for me at this stop 11:30 in the morning. At the time I was more of that happy-go-lucky artist kind who was itching for expression, and when I got inspiration it was usually from a horribly mundane place such as the bus. Now I hardly get any inspiration at all. Though as I think back and listen back to moments of my old life, I start to remember this specific one that took place in such a normal part of my existence. No action was had yet it feels like the most important thing that happened to me.
On the stop I met a fair-skinned man dressed in a snakeskin coat.
The first time I met him I did not speak a word. I looked away and made it obvious that I was at the bus stop to go to work, not to chat. Everyone has places to go and they should notice that maybe not everyone wants to talk.
The second time I met him he nudged me on the shoulder and told me a joke. I don't quite remember what the joke was. When I didn't respond and shuffled over to the side, he did the same.
The third time I met him we had a small talk. (I will write these talks with I to symbolize me, and S to symbolize him. I for me, S for snakeskin.)
S: You know the story of the old lamb?
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S: Long ago there was a farmer as dumb as bricks, who could never get his animals to do anything he wanted. They'd eat and that'd be the end of it, chickens wouldn't lay their eggs and cows wouldn't let him milk them. It was like he had a curse.
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S: Though one day he was travelling with his children and he found a lamb with the prettiest wool imaginable. He took the lamb and, selfishly, put her in his farm without regards to who it could've belonged to! Ain't that odd?
I: I don't care.
S: His children wanted to play more but he wanted to shear the lamb. Every day he would shear the lamb's fine wool and stockpile it for a huge sell. But every time he woke up and looked at the sheep, it seemed to age abnormally. It aged so fast that in a week the sheep couldn't stand on its own legs.
S: That sheep's face seemed to melt off the bone with how wrinkly it was, but no matter what it wouldn't die. Wool would just grow back slower and slower and worse and worse -- and worse. One day he decided to go in for the sell with all that wool he had, though when he entered his storage room it was all gone. He couldn't make any damn sense of it! He blamed his children, his wife, God, the sheep, and went back to shearing it again. Poor lamb had the worst wool by now.
S: When he couldn't shear no more that's when he finally gave up, and decided to play with his kids for the first time in forever. They went out to a large field of flowers, rough-housed, did some tossing the ball...
S: He came back to the farm with a smile on his face and his children at his side. When he looked over at the open pastures, with the animals eating grass or whatever they do, the sheep was gone. Then the animals were gone. His children, who were just beside him, had disappeared.
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S: It's not a story for everyone. I'm guessing you don't like folk tales.
I: I don't want to hear tales right now. I have something to get to.
S: It ain't gonna arrive in a while. Perhaps you'd like to remember a few happy moments before you go and live the same day again.
I: I'll have some happy moments when I get home.
He stopped talking to me for the rest of that day. Nobody else ever came to the bus stop except for me and him, almost every single time. It was out in the middle of nowhere and bordered by tons of snow. The second time I talked to him was 3 days after our initial interaction, on friday. I remember it was friday because I usually never work on friday unless I need more money. Surprisingly, he was there.
I: *Startled and stifled laugh*
I: Are you... are you a clown?
S: Me? What, can you not use your eyes?
I: Why are you dressed like a clown?
S: I have some funny business to attend, some that require me to not be bugged by bus stop people.
I: No... sorry... I just didn't expect it, is all. Friday business? You got a birthday party to go to, or...?
S: I simply felt like wearing a clown costume to work. It's the weekend! Can't I have some fun on the weekend?
I: Friday's not the weekend.
S: Everyone's got an excuse, I see.
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S: Sorry for my impolite behavior. That was petty of me, wasn't it?
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S: Say, you ever hear a clown nose?
I: The humor's gone. Leave me be.
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Then, completely out of nowhere, he stood up and left. I watched him disappear into the vast white landscape in front of me and slowly fade into the mist of snow. It was an eerie sight... an odd one too, kind of like him coming in the clown costume in the first place. I think it was a clown costume.
I went to work and thought about him almost the whole day. When I was idling and doing nothing, I thought about how he walked away. When I was laughing, I thought about that stupid costume. When I got on a bus back to that stop, I saw him like he was there. He wasn't. What a captivating fellow, I thought to myself. Maybe I'll give him a chance and apologize tomorrow.
Tomorrow he wasn't there and wouldn't be for the next couple weeks. I sat alone, which despite being what I wanted, was kind of odd without his presence. It felt like I was supposed to have someone next to me to ignore. I didn't end up thinking that much about it up until I had a few depressive episodes. My poetic and artistic work felt lacking. I felt like I was a dull, disgusting simpleton -- or worse, a phony. I thought I was so good at poetry, but everything I wrote was as mundane as the things I drew it from. Nobody would want to read my stuff. Nobody would bat me an eye. Eventually this sadness bled into my work and got me fired from a job before I had enough time to prove myself to them, which was another source for my guilt. There wasn't a light in my life afterward; home life felt worse and shrouded by my desire to keep working, to keep making stuff because I wasn't good enough. I couldn't even score a job because of where we lived, but my parents would still get angry at me like it was my fault.
That was when I thought of him again and that stupid philosophy he had... wearing clown clothes on friday because he could, because he had no excuses, giving me some lecture about a farmer, and I ended up regarding him with some fondness even though we had talked so sparingly. He might've been the only friend I had, maybe the only person who regarded me positively for no reason at all -- which is better than loving me for a reason. Maybe he was lonely and needed someone to talk to. Maybe I stole the joy from his days and he ended up killing himself.
Suddenly the thought burst into my brain; I could go there tomorrow, at eleven as I usually did, and talk to him again. I could right my wrongs and have a fun talk or maybe tell him about my problems. I could ask him to teach me his ways of life. It could be a fun venture with absolutely no benefit, because fun was its own benefit. I eagerly ate and went to sleep with a dorky smile on my face.
And then I woke up late -- very late, super late, at around 1:00 PM. I put on new clothes and ran out my house as fast as I could to that stop, almost losing my way because of my rush. There was little I wanted to lose but this was one of those things I could not let go; a change of pace. After a while I made it to the stop, exhausted, and it was, of course, empty. I plopped my butt down on the metal bench and put my head in my hands, realizing how neurotic I was to prioritize such a small thing for no reason at all. No reason. Then he sat down next to me.
S: I can tell you have problems.
I: Oh... you're back. You're back! Do you want to talk?
S: Not really. I never wanted to talk to you, but I did it anyway.
I: So... no?
S: We're going to talk. You wanted to, and I'm probably not long for another interaction.
I: Did you get fired?
S: No, business just changed. Things are different. I have no use for this stop anymore.
I: Okay... um... are you mad at me?
He looked me in the eyes, patting me on the shoulder.
S: I can't get mad anymore.
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S: You remind me of that farmer. Only it's a little different, right? You feel that sadness too... that unquenchable desire for more, but the lack of appreciation for what comes.
I: I...
S: There's nothing to the eyes here but snow. If you showed a man who only knows Alaska a picture of a sunny countryside, he'd say you painted it. If you knew nothing but snow you wouldn't ever know what grass looks like. When someone tells you that grass is real, you don't believe it. When someone tells you they love you, you don't believe it. When someone dresses up in a costume for no reason, you can't believe it. Everything has to make sense even when we don't know anything about it. You're struggling with that, and you come to your old friend to fix yourself because you think I know more. No. I know as much as you do. I've been in your lungs and in your brain since you were born, waiting for a moment to strike. When I struck I did it at the wrong time. That was my fault.
I: I'm sorry for being so rude to you. You're a man of beautiful words... just... how do I go on?
S: That's not for me to say. I just don't pretend like I'm alive, because being alive has its constrictions. I pretend that I'm free even when I'm not. So much can be achieved when you don't see facts as facts.
I: Was that my problem? Have I been doing this?
S: You've been doing the exact things you were meant to ever since you locked eyes on labor. You're living and you don't even know it. You're alive and you don't even recognize it. On the cosmic ladder, you toil at the bottom.
I felt his touch on my shoulder fade and he had gone as soon as he came. I don't remember the rest of it.
It probably didn't matter anyway.
Written by Nicole Buuward (6/5/26)