I was sitting at the very back of the Eastbound 80 bus, tapping the "Refresh" button on the liveblog service of El País every minute of the Spain - Russia game. I would have watched the match at home but had committed to serving at the 8a service at St John's. So there I was on the bus, having fulfilled my minor responsibility to the flock, following this global game at the same pace as a Spanish sports writer would type.
Around the time the bus passed California Ave, I noticed a guy sitting alone on the opposite side of the bus looking closely at his phone. More to the point, looking closely at his phone showing the Spain - Russia game. No connected headphones. He seemed to be in his late-20s, wearing casual clothes for a muggy Sunday morning in Chicago. It was his hat that sealed my intention to stand up and walk over to him: it had the Venezuelan flag. The odds were pretty good that the guy spoke Spanish. As the bus made another stop, I took advantage of the opportunity to take the three steps necessary to walk over and tap his shoulder. He looked up. I asked in Spanish if he was watching the World Cup game. He responded "sí," so I followed up with asking the favor to watch with him. He moved himself closer to the window in a gesture of further freeing up the open seat to his right. As I sat down, he switched hands so that the phone was in his right one and closer to me. He apologized, "eh, siento por la pantalla rota. Es un poco vergonzoso." The screen was indeed very broken, in the spider-web pattern that leaves no doubt of a past fall onto concrete. Still, the screen did its job in showing the players and the gol that Spain had stupidly earned in the moments before I stood up.
We chatted about fútbol. He confirmed that he was Venezuelan, having lived in the US for ten years. I didn't inquire into the details. We chatted about fútbol. He knew light years more than me, but I felt awfully proud of holding my own with the comparatively few details found in memory. He thought that Belgium would win the tournament. He laughed when I predicted that Uruguay would win it all as long as Luis Suárez resisted biting anybody.
The bus approached Clark Avenue, so I stood up and wished my generous benefactor well. He did the same while attaching a warning that Spain would lose if they kept playing as poorly as they were. I agreed and hoped that he was wrong. I felt real regret at having to exit the bus... but, all good things come to an end.
As predicted, Spain would eventually lose the game in an embarrassing way. I'll forget about it in a little while but I won't forget those 10 minutes on the Eastbound 80 bus in which a Venezuelan stranger shared his phone - broken screen and all - with another stranger. Jennifer Adams often returned to the metaphor of the broken and the cracked -- that through those spaces new life sneaks inside. The imperfect mobile phone screen made the whole situation more perfect because acknowledging it allowed both of us on the bus to share our lives.
I stood there in the fierce sunshine at the corner of Clark Avenue and Irving Park Rd watching the next bus make its slow approach. As it arrived and opened its doors, I felt a flash of gratitude for being able to feel that earlier regret. It meant that something really wonderful had happened. Getting onto the Northbound 22 bus towards Andersonville, I wondered what other wonderful things might happen.
Around the time the bus passed California Ave, I noticed a guy sitting alone on the opposite side of the bus looking closely at his phone. More to the point, looking closely at his phone showing the Spain - Russia game. No connected headphones. He seemed to be in his late-20s, wearing casual clothes for a muggy Sunday morning in Chicago. It was his hat that sealed my intention to stand up and walk over to him: it had the Venezuelan flag. The odds were pretty good that the guy spoke Spanish. As the bus made another stop, I took advantage of the opportunity to take the three steps necessary to walk over and tap his shoulder. He looked up. I asked in Spanish if he was watching the World Cup game. He responded "sí," so I followed up with asking the favor to watch with him. He moved himself closer to the window in a gesture of further freeing up the open seat to his right. As I sat down, he switched hands so that the phone was in his right one and closer to me. He apologized, "eh, siento por la pantalla rota. Es un poco vergonzoso." The screen was indeed very broken, in the spider-web pattern that leaves no doubt of a past fall onto concrete. Still, the screen did its job in showing the players and the gol that Spain had stupidly earned in the moments before I stood up.
We chatted about fútbol. He confirmed that he was Venezuelan, having lived in the US for ten years. I didn't inquire into the details. We chatted about fútbol. He knew light years more than me, but I felt awfully proud of holding my own with the comparatively few details found in memory. He thought that Belgium would win the tournament. He laughed when I predicted that Uruguay would win it all as long as Luis Suárez resisted biting anybody.
The bus approached Clark Avenue, so I stood up and wished my generous benefactor well. He did the same while attaching a warning that Spain would lose if they kept playing as poorly as they were. I agreed and hoped that he was wrong. I felt real regret at having to exit the bus... but, all good things come to an end.
As predicted, Spain would eventually lose the game in an embarrassing way. I'll forget about it in a little while but I won't forget those 10 minutes on the Eastbound 80 bus in which a Venezuelan stranger shared his phone - broken screen and all - with another stranger. Jennifer Adams often returned to the metaphor of the broken and the cracked -- that through those spaces new life sneaks inside. The imperfect mobile phone screen made the whole situation more perfect because acknowledging it allowed both of us on the bus to share our lives.
I stood there in the fierce sunshine at the corner of Clark Avenue and Irving Park Rd watching the next bus make its slow approach. As it arrived and opened its doors, I felt a flash of gratitude for being able to feel that earlier regret. It meant that something really wonderful had happened. Getting onto the Northbound 22 bus towards Andersonville, I wondered what other wonderful things might happen.