Russell sat quietly on a bench in a pool of morning sunlight. From my position behind the ticket booth, I watched him twitch, adjust his New York Yankees hat with its bent rim and smack a clean white baseball into his oiled-up Rawlings mitt.
As far as I knew, no human being claimed Russell Maxwell and everyone considered him “slow” or mentally disabled. He had minimal education and no job; he never talked about his family and he had no friends—well, except for me. And each day, regardless of the temperamental upstate New York weather, he arrived a few minutes before me at the Adirondack Trailways bus terminal in downtown Utica.
And each morning he said “goodbye” to passengers taking the 9:15 bus to Boston. But this morning he seemed sullen and withdrawn, and the wide smile usually spread across his face was absent. I noticed his mood, but did not ask him about it, since I was busy selling tickets and answering customer questions.
Still, Russell reacted with impeccable timing when I announced over the loudspeaker, “Adirondack Trailways Number 47 to Herkimer, Albany, Pittsfield, Springfield and Boston with connections to Baltimore and Washington, DC now departing at Gate Seven.”
Russell pulled his left hand out of his baseball glove, stood up and sauntered toward Gate Seven; but halfway between the bench and the gate he stopped, stooped down and picked up a bulky travel bag owned by an elderly woman with worn hazel eyes and a slight hunch back.
“Thank you, young man,” she said, “but I can manage just fine on my own.” I could tell she was afraid of the large black man holding her luggage. Somewhat disappointed by not being able to help out where he thought he was needed, Russell nodded, set the bag down on the ground and walked away.
I greeted the bus driver, Henry Corbin, who usually made the run from Buffalo to Boston. I handed him the paperwork along with a cup of coffee with cream and extra sugar and a homemade cannoli from the Florentine Bakery. As the bus’s engine warmed and the heater roared, I watched as Russell leaned against the facade of the terminal, pulled out his silver harmonica from his coat pocket and began playing. He continued playing, his cheeks swelling as he blew harder and harder, and the bus pulled out of sight, bound for the snowy, hilly terrain unfolding eastward.
“You keep getting better and better with that thing, Russ,” I said as we moved back inside the terminal.
“I try, Phil. One of these days I’m gonna play from inside that bus?”
“One of these days all right,” I said.
I unlocked the door to the ticket counter and went inside my narrow office. Russell, who spent most of his days trailing me, followed close behind. He continued to pester me about his desire to be a Trailways passenger instead of just a bus station onlooker.
“So what do you think it’s like, settlin’ back in those comfy seats and watching the countryside fly by?” he asked.
“What, you mean riding in one of the buses?”
“Yeah, you know, like I’ve been wanting to.”
“Oh I’m sure you’ll find out one of these days,” I said, going along with his apparent fantasy plan. I had learned it was easier to indulge his dreams rather than dismiss them.
“I hope you are right,” he said.
In between the morning and afternoon runs, I had time for a quick bite so I slipped into Rosie’s, a sandwich shop inside the bus terminal. I sat down at the counter and ordered a turkey club with potato chips and a cup of black coffee. But after I gave my order to the waitress, Rebecca, who was Rosie’s eldest daughter and ran the restaurant for her mother, I spotted Russell sitting alone in a green booth that appeared too large for one person. “I’m gonna join Russell over there,” I said to Rebecca. She was pouring a glass of ice water for another customer, but looked up and said, “Sure, Phil. I’ll bring everything to you.”
I slid into the booth, bracing my hand on the back of the seat. Russell sat upright with the Observer-Dispatch newspaper spread open and a few scraps of his BLT left on his plate, which had been pushed away from him. His face held a blank expression as he looked out the large diner window; outside, in the street, heavy snow fell and appeared to turn to slush the moment the flakes hit the ground. Russell had given no indication he noticed me sitting in the booth, but then he turned to me, as if he knew I was there, and asked, “Phil, how can it be snowing like this here and be sunny and 74 degrees in Charlotte?” He took another glance at the national temperature listings in the paper and said, “I just don’t get it. Where is Charlotte and why is it hotter?”
“It’s in North Carolina,” I said. “That’s in the South and it is always warmer there.” Rebecca brought my sandwich and coffee and I wasted no time in eating. But while I took my first bite of the turkey club, Russell tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Look how happy they are.”
I peered out the window and saw a group of college students flocking to the terminal with duffel bags and knapsacks slung over their shoulders. “Looks like Utica College and Mohawk Valley have let out for the semester.”
“I’ll never make it out,” Russell said, his voice full of gloom.
I was going to ignore his statement and resume munching on my sandwich, but my curiosity overtook me. “Russell, let me ask you something,” I began. “Just why is it you want to leave so bad?”
He continued to look outside, his eyes never wavering from the glass, and said in a low voice, “I’ve never been anywhere Phil. I just want to know what it’s like to visit someplace else. And anywhere has to be better than here.”
“Well, you’re right about that,” I said. “I don’t know why I stay in Utica myself.” I edged closer to Russell, folded up his O-D and said, “I’ve got a little business proposition for you, Russ, if you’re game.”
“What’s that?” he asked and turned to face me.
“Well, you know running the station is no easy task. I mean, there are tickets to sell, along with donuts and coffee, helping passengers with their bags and cleaning up. I could use some help. What do you say, would you like a job?”
He nodded his head, gave me a smile and said, “Yeah Phil, I can do that. I’d be good at it, too.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right,” I said. “Plus, you might as well get paid if you’re hanging around here anyway. And in no time, you’ll save enough for a round trip ticket. You’ll be able to go anywhere you want.”
“I like that idea, Phil. That’s a good idea.”
+ + +
Friday rolled around and in the early morning grayness, with the streetlights on Railroad Street still burning, Russell came clattering around the corner on his mountain bike. When he spotted me, he waved and rang his little bell several times. I was too exhausted to respond and merely moped toward the terminal. But while I continued to walk slowly, I pondered Russell’s situation. Where did he come from? Did he have a mother and father who loved him, a warm bed and a home with heat and electricity? These thoughts lingered in my mind as we sat down behind the counter and warmed up with some coffee.
Then I set him straight on his routine: emptying garbage bags, cleaning bathrooms, mopping floors, washing windows and helping out passengers who needed assistance— but not rushing up to them or badgering them.
He went about his work with alacrity and the day flew by and five o’clock finally came. I was exhausted and could taste that first Utica Club sliding down my throat. But before my weekend could officially kick in, I had to get the college kids loaded up on the 5:45 p.m. eastbound bus.
Russell continued shining the wood benches while I stood over him and saw his murky reflection in the shimmering surface. Sweat gathered on his brow and his forearm muscles twitched as he made multiple circular motions.
A small crowd filed in and waited in line for tickets. “Say Russ, you want to help me get these passengers on their way?”
“Sure,” he said, and he stopped what he was doing and walked with me to the ticket booth.
The number of passengers swelled and the din of several individual conversations mingling rose to a distracting level.
“Russell, help the people with their baggage,” I yelled above the noise.
One short, compact strawberry-blonde-haired college girl struggled as she shuffled from the ticket counter to the front of the terminal, where the bus was parked along the curb. She had an overloaded hockey bag hoisted on her shoulder and a canvas briefcase in her free hand. Russell moved closer, nudging against her and said, “Miss, can I help you?” But he made the mistake of trying to reach for the hockey bag and the woman reacted with an apparent “flight or fight” response.
Turning her body toward Russell, she screamed in a nasally voice, “Get the fuck away from me, freak!” She then smacked Russell in the stomach with the briefcase.
He stood cowering in the center of the terminal with a befuddled look etched on his face, and some nearby passengers laughed while others just stared at Russell. He wasted no time in bolting the scene, rushing for the tunnel leading to the train tracks on the south side of the building.
After the bus departed and a quiet hush resumed in the terminal, I wandered outside, struggling to light a Marlboro in the darting, nasty wind. Darkness had now settled over downtown Utica. When I turned the corner, making my way to the nearby Trackside Tavern, I saw a figure resting on the train tracks, shivering. It was Russell.
I approached him as he sat on the rusted tracks. His eyes were wet and puffy, as if a lake of tears had built up behind them.
“What’s up, Russ?”
“Go away!” he screamed.
“What’s the matter? You did a good job.”
“She hit me.”
“So what?” I said and patted him on the back. “You did what you were supposed to do. She was nothing but a rich little bitch.”
“They laughed at me.”
This statement required more thought in order to come up with a suitable response, and I paused to think for a moment, straining to find some image or words that would make Russell feel better.
“Fuck ’em,” I said. “Who cares what they think? They’re gone now.”
“So it’s OK? You’re not mad?”
“No. Not at all. You did what I asked you to, and like I said, fuck ’em.”
He looked up at me and repeated what I said. “Yeah. I agree. Fuck ’em.”
“Right,” I said. I tossed my cigarette in a pile of snow and added, “Now let’s get you someplace warm.”
He rose from the ground and when he stood up, I saw the back of his pants were soaked. I wrapped my coat around his shoulders as we straddled the tracks and then crossed the street.
“What do you say we get a hamburger?” I asked.
He nodded and said, “Sure. Can I wash it down with a beer?”
“OK, but you’ll have to show me some ID, to make sure you’re 21. I don’t feel like getting thrown in jail for giving alcohol to minors.”
Russell laughed and said, “I turned 21 two years ago, Phil. Do you know what?”
“What?” I asked, thinking he was going to tell me a story or something.
“That makes me 23 years old.”
“Yes it does,” I said, as I opened the door to the Trackside Tavern. “Old enough to drink.”
+ + +
Morning brought more cold air to the Mohawk Valley, plummeting temperatures, while strong winds caused blowing and drifting snow on the highways.
Donning a ski mask and parka, Russell shoveled the walkway leading to the station, chopped the ice and scattered rock salt along the sidewalk. After about an hour he came inside.
He was huffing and puffing and mumbling to himself. I poured him a cup of coffee and stirred in four sugars.
“Sit down and warm up. I have to pay you, too.”
He sat down on a stool behind the ticket booth but he kept the mask on.
“Russell, take that thing off.”
“I’m comfortable,” he said.
“Yeah, but it’s making me sweat.”
He removed it slowly and a half-moon, grape juice-colored bruise stood out beneath his left eye.
“Jesus, Russ, what the hell happened to you?”
“I got hit with a basketball.”
“Basketballs don’t make that kind of mark,” I replied.
He kept silent and held the coffee cup to his lips as his nose ran incessantly.
“What really happened?”
“I told you—I got hit with a ball.”
I handed him a tissue and moved closer, inspecting the black and blue mark. “You can tell me, we’re friends. Did someone hit you?”
He slammed the mug down on the desk and a wave of coffee spilled over the rim.
“No, no, leave me alone,” he screamed. “Goddamn it, she said she didn’t mean it.”
I wondered who the “she” was, but I decided not to ask him. I placed my hand on his knee, but he pulled away from me and sat with his arms folded.
“I’m sorry, it’s none of my business,” I said in a low easy tone.
He refused to look at me. I opened the bottom drawer of the desk and grabbed some money. I counted out 175 dollars and placed the bills neatly on the desk, within his reach. “Here, you deserve this. It’s your pay.”
Russell looked at the stack of bills for a moment, and then he snatched the money, wadded it up in a roll and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. “Tomorrow I leave forever,” he said, and walked out of the office.
Russell came in early the next day, carrying a small beige suitcase and a plastic grocery bag filled with potato chips and a two-liter bottle of soda. He wore a powder blue dress shirt, a wrinkled navy blue suit jacket and black leather shoes, which clashed with his white tube socks.
He waved to me but did not stop to talk and headed straight for the barbershop located near the front entrance of the terminal. I stepped out of my office and saw Russell settle into the chair. Carmelo, the sometimes ornery Italian barber, took hold of his shears; a moment later, the familiar mechanical buzzing sound began as Russell fidgeted in the chair. At this, Carmelo grew perturbed and hollered some profanity in Italian.
After the haircut, Russell paid Carmelo, who patted him on the back and slipped him a small black comb for his travels. Russell walked to the old-fashioned shoeshine stand, and soon the layer of winter salt disappeared from his shoes, revealing a gleaming black surface. He tipped Charlie the “Shiner” and then stood before me at the ticket window.
“You all set to roll, Russ?” I asked. I waited for him to break the suspense by revealing his appointed destination, but he just nodded his head and did not speak.
“Well, where are you headed?”
“To Charlotte, North Carolina,” he said.
I punched in the price. “One round trip ticket to Charlotte comes to 139 dollars.”
“No. I only want one way,” he said, and frown lines appeared on his forehead. “Are you sure? Do you have anyone to look out for you down there?”
“I don’t need anyone,” he said. “I’m an adult. One way please,” he said, his voice rising slightly higher.
“All right, no problem.” I ripped up the round trip fare and passed him the one-way ticket. He paid me the exact change, 69 dollars and 50 cents. I wanted to say something like what a father, brother or uncle would say. I wanted to tell Russell: “I’ll miss you, be careful and call if you need anything.” Instead, all I could manage to spit out was, “Have a good trip, Russ.” But I grabbed one of my business cards on the messy counter and gave it to him. He buried it in his pocket and said, “I won’t need this, but thanks.”
“Please, call if you get in trouble or your need something,” I said.
By now the bus had pulled in. I quickly poured Henry a cup of coffee and hurried out the door. I handed the driver the paperwork and the coffee.
“What—no cannoli?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, I was in a hurry.”
“Phil, are you OK—you look awful jittery?” Henry asked.
“I’m fine,” I said and then looked down at my hands. They were shaking wildly.
After the line of old ladies, college kids and other riders filed into the bus, only Russell was left standing outside. Henry looked at his watch and then at me. I approached Russell, with my hands buried deep in my pockets, shielding them from the wind. At first, his aspect remained impassive, but this cold stone front held only briefly before it crumbled. His face became wrenched with a concoction of emotions—pain, pride and excitement—and he pulled me close, squeezing me with vigor.
“I’ll miss you Philly. I will miss you. Keep warm and watch out for the troublemakers.”
“All aboard,” Henry yelled, and I could feel the warm air from the bus’s heater blowing through the opened door. Russell reached for his harmonica in his jacket pocket and blew it once. The sound was deep, sad and hollow. Then he placed it in the palm of my hand and said, “I won’t be needing this anymore.”
I protested and tried to hand the harmonica back to Russell, but he would not take it. “No Russell, you need this to play on the bus, like you wanted to before,” I said.
“It’s OK, Phil. I have another one in my suitcase,” he said, and then he flashed me the same smile I had grown so used to seeing that winter.
He climbed into the bus, sank into the second seat on the right-hand side and leaned his head back. And as the bus pulled away, crunching the icy snow as its tires turned over, Russell pressed his palm flat against the glass window.
I waved to him and said a silent Hail Mary as I stood at the curb, watching the tail lights disappear into the snowy horizon. Part of me worried about his survival in a big city without any connections, while the other part—the more selfish side—just felt sadness and regret over the loss of my trusted employee and good friend.
I headed back inside the terminal and went into my office. I sipped the cold remnants of my morning coffee, put my feet up on the desk and blew the harmonica a few times. It sounded more like a whistle and less like a musical instrument. I gave up and set it down. I closed my eyes, trying to steal a few uninterrupted minutes of sleep before passengers began arriving for the 11:30 a.m. bus to Buffalo; but Russell’s face kept coming to me.
I left the office and went to grab some breakfast at Rosie’s. The restaurant was empty and I sat down at the counter so I could talk to Rebecca. “Hey Phil,” she said. “Are you OK? You look like you lost your best friend.”
“I did, sort of. Russell left today. He’s going to North Carolina.”
She poured me some fresh coffee and placed her hand on my cheek. “I’m sorry Phil. Russell is a sweet kid. He told me the other day he wanted to marry me someday when he got enough money.”
“That sounds like Russell,” I said. I closed my eyes and shook my head slightly, and added, “I’m worried about him now. I don’t know if he has anyone to look after him down there.”
“Well, I think he manages OK,” Rebecca said. “He’s a little slow, but he seems worldly enough.” She sat down on a stool next to me and put her arm on my shoulder. “You know what, Phil? You’re a good man. Why is it we haven’t gone out before?”
“What?”
“Yeah, it’s true, and I could use a good man.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and you need a nice meal and some company to lift your spirits. Come over tonight and I’ll take good care of you.”
“I never knew you were this forward Rebecca.”
“What, you don’t like it?
“Oh I didn’t say that. No, I like it.”
“Good. Then how does 6:30 work for you?”
“Fine,” I said. “But I probably won’t be the best company for you.”
“Oh don’t worry about that,” Rebecca said.
“All right. I just hope Russell won’t get mad at me for going out with his girl.”
“Well,” she said with a smile, “you’re here and Russell’s not, so it’s only fair.”
“Thanks for being so nice,” I said.
“Sure Phil. And tonight we can talk about your friend if you’d like. Or we don’t have to talk at all.”
Rebecca took my order and put it in, then refilled my coffee and returned to business, starting with wiping down the counter. She collected some dirty dishes and washed them in the back and then started preparing for the rush of lunch orders; she sliced tomatoes, counted out beef patties and cooked bacon for BLTs.
In the kitchen the cook, Thomas, barked out, “Order up.”
Rebecca brought me my breakfast and I ate it quickly, pausing only a few times to look out the window at the snow falling outside. I surmised Russell’s bus had probably passed Herkimer already. I wondered if he was asleep or still looking out the window at the countryside. And while I drained the last swallow of coffee from my cup, I came to the conclusion I had to stop worrying about Russell. Whether I liked it or not, whether Russell was mentally disabled or not, I had to accept he had chosen, like so many of my other passengers, to depart the station, the familiar surroundings of home and family, and travel into the unknown. I had to accept Russell as a grown man with free will. And as a friend, I had to be happy for him that he finally lived out his dream of leaving Utica.
I left my money on the counter, making sure to give Rebecca more than a 20-percent tip, and yelled in the back, “Thanks Rebecca, I’ll see you later.”
The kitchen door swung open and she stood in front of me wearing a hairnet and holding a dish towel in one hand. “I’ll find you after the lunch rush, so I can give you the address,” she said.
“Sounds good.”
“Try to cheer up,” she said, “your friend will be fine.”
“Thanks,” I said and left the diner. I went back to the office and started my own prep work for the next route. I sold tickets to some passengers who arrived early, and by 10:30 I became so busy I didn’t have time to think about anything, let alone Russell.
After the Buffalo-bound bus departed, I smoked a cigarette outside in the subzero cold and then rushed inside to warm up. A rectangular piece of paper was taped to my door; a yellow Post-It note attached to the paper read: “Phil, I forgot to give this to you earlier. The kid left it in my shop. Carmelo.”
I sat on one of the benches in the terminal, peeled off Carmelo’s note and inspected the paper. I noticed it had Russell’s handwriting in red ink. He had folded over a discarded Amtrak ticket and then he had written out in a mathematical equation: “Russell + Phil = Friends Forever.” He added, in a line below the equation, this inscription: “Don’t worry Phil, I’ll see you again one day.”
I smiled and went back inside my office. I taped the makeshift card to the wall, next to some Trailways regulation forms and a large map of New York State. I blew the harmonica again—loudly and for a long stretch—and this time, to my utter amazement, the sound resembled a crude form of music.
