(from Surgery of Modern Warfare)



A dark green van makes a roundtrip across Lake Pontchartrain every weekday and in there are eight people seated prisoner-style on benches that face each other rather than the typical eyes-to-the-front set up. These are commuters who would rather be driven than drive, and they have given up their freedom to speed and talk to themselves and play their music loud. They pay $25.00 a week for 5 roundtrips, far less than the two tanks of gas it would cost them if they drove themselves. The van picks them up in the Winn-Dixie parking lot in Mandeville and leaves them in front of One Shell Square in downtown New Orleans.

In alphabetical order, the passengers are Bill, Charles, Della, Edward, Faye, Gina, Henry, and Ira the driver, although some mornings Charles drives so Ira can read the newspaper or talk to Gina.

Bill never talks, just works, using his briefcase as a desk.

Charles and Della are having an affair and sit together and touch legs, brush hands, and when they talk they look at each other's lips.

Edward smells of cigarettes, having smoked in his car on the way to Winn-Dixie, and he reads suspense novels. You don't want to interrupt.

Faye talks incessantly about her children, and when those stories run dry, she has stories about nieces, nephews, and other people's children. No one really listens. They nod and look out the window, down at people in cars reading files, or drinking coffee out of thermal mugs that fit in holders.

Ira watches migrating birds in broken flight patterns as they cross the lake on their way to better weather. Some days it's all ducks, other days, brown pelicans with wings that look mechanical, way too heavy to stay in the air, or there are the seagulls no one cares about, really, because they're inelegant ruthless scavengers, on the lookout for crusts, the pickles picked out of sandwiches, and bits of chips, stuff you leave behind for the birds.

Gina hates seagulls. One time she was sitting on the beach in Bay St. Louis and one swooped down and tried to pluck a barrette out of her hair. She sits quietly and sometimes makes calls on her cell phone, apologetic for the interruption. She is always dressed in dark suits and high heels and sheer stockings that catch the light through the window and shine like they're dipped in silver.

Henry and Edward could speak to Gina but they don't, so she usually sits alone, unless Ira isn't driving, and then he takes the seat beside her and asks her questions: What are you doing this weekend? Not much, she says. So I still have a chance? he says.

Faye likes Ira and would like him to sit with her when he isn't driving, and Ira would like Faye more if he got her past the stupid talk, and found out that she makes beautiful books of blank paper with pages thick as felt, hand bound with rabbit glue. Ira keeps journals but writing in the car makes him queasy.

When Charles drives he controls the radio so he plays Christian Contemporary with the volume low. Morning after morning, it's difficult not to have memorized the words -- "Majesty," "I Could Sing Of Your Love Forever," "This Is The Day."

Bill knows the trick to get the sliding door not to stick and he is always there to offer a hand as people step out, a big open hand to Gina, a cup under the elbow to Della and Faye, a tight grip to the men if they need it.