She weaved through the people and most of the station, then sat down at the end of one of the long wooden benches close to the front doors and scaffolding.
Now what do I do?she thought. “This can’t be real?” she muttered. “No TikTok,People Magazine,noKeepin’ Up With The Kardashians.”
She noticed she was sitting next to a three-foot-tall can-like ashtray and, in it, was a broken piece of glass from a discarded soda bottle. Formulating a desperate idea, she picked up the piece of glass and gazed around.
“I’ve got to be dreamin’,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “I’ve gotta be in a coma… time to wake up, girl.”
Without hesitation, she took the piece of glass in her right hand and quickly brought it across the palm of her left. The pain was immediate, and the blood followed a moment later.
“Shiiiit!”she cried.“That hurt!”
Several people turned and looked at her, but she ignored them, dropped the glass to the floor, and hurriedly dug into her purse for the stash of Kleenex she’d seen earlier.
As she was doing so, she saw someone in her peripheral vision offer her something. She looked up to see a white handkerchief being held by an African American maintenance man who worked at the bus station. She could tell he was maintenance by his gray uniform, lack of an outdoor coat, and the push broom he held in his other hand.
“It’s clean,” he said.
She took the handkerchief, mumbled “Thanks,” and wrapped it tightly around her bleeding palm.
“Go to the bathroom and clean that off,” he said. “I’ll go fetch the first aid kit.”
He didn’t order her so much as simply announce the next steps that needed to be done. He was in his mid-thirties, had a little gray in his hair, and seemed neither overly friendly nor uncompassionate.
Reconciled to her situation, Goldie rose, went to the ladies’ bathroom, and returned a few minutes later. When she did, the African American man was sitting in the seat next to where she’d been sitting with a metallic box that had a red cross on it.
“Sit yourself down,” he invited, “and I’ll fix you up.”
She said “Thank you” again, sat down, and held out her left hand. The stranger produced a silver tube of antibacterial cream.
“This might smart some,” he warned.
He gently removed the bloody handkerchief, then tenderly applied some white cream. As he did, he spoke quietly so others wouldn’t hear.
“Saw what you did,” he said. “Why’d you cut yourself like that?”
She winced from the sting of the cream, but he blew on her palm to relieve it.
“You’ve heard of the expression: ‘Pinch me, I must be dreamin’?’” she asked. “Same idea.”
He nodded slightly as he produced a roll of gauze from the kit and started to carefully wrap her hand.
“I’m in a nightmare,” she admitted. “Yesterday, I was in one world, and today I’m in this. It’s like a time-shift reality.”
“I see,” he replied.
He continued to wrap the gauze firmly until he thought the wound was properly protected, then got a small pair of scissors from the kit and cut it.
“It’s okay if you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about,” Goldie offered. “You’re a nice man, and I appreciate the help.”
Right at that moment, there was an announcement over the PA for a bus departing for Boulder, Loveland, Fort Collins, and then Cheyanne. The maintenance man finished dressing Goldie’s wound and didn’t speak until the announcement was over.
“Some years ago,” he finally said. “I served in the Great War. Went from Denver to Mississippi for basic trainin’, then on to France. Before I knew it, I was crouchin’ in a mud-filled trench, with men screamin’, dyin’, and other men tryin’ to kill Germans. I said to myself: ‘Yesterday, I was in one world, and today I’m in this. It’s like a time-shift reality.’ I might’ve even cut my hand with my bayonet just to make sure everything was real.”
Goldie looked at him, intrigued.
“So, what’d you do?”
“I adapted to my surroundings, learned from others around me, and decided to survive, to beat the hell I was in. I don’t know what’s goin’ on with you, young lady. But I know if you want to, you can adapt and survive, too.”
