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Murray rides to the Montgomery stop and heads toward Mission to the Greyhound Bus station. He walks past a row of people sitting on the sidewalk with battered cardboard signs, begging for money and claiming they have multiple children to feed. Several of them smell of urine and booze, and look as if they have not bathed in years.
Murray nods at each one as he passes. They nod back. One of them wishes Murray a good day, another hopes that God blesses him, and a third screams out that Murray is a Capitalist Pig Bourgeois Nazi. As he turns the corner to enter the station, he hears the man scream what sounds like, "All of you goddamned doctors are all alike". Murray hesitates for just a split second and then enters through the automatic doors.
The station is damp and very noisy. The smell of old permeates throughout. Paperbags and plastic grocery sacks substituting for luggage are strewn around the aisles. Children cry and whine or roam aimlessly drooling suckers from their mouths. Women speak in every possible language to their children and one another. Students sleep with their heads resting on their knapsacks or else strike their best "I am totally bored by this lecture" pose.
Murray wanders around for quite awhile before heading for the desk marked "Information".
"Yes. Can I help you?" The woman asks in a voice filled equally with boredom and disgust.
"Yes. Where can I get some destination schedules?" Murray asks politely.
"Where to?" The woman asks, this time with more disgust than boredom.
"No place in particular. I'm more interested in finding out where I can go. I mean, what my options are," Murray says.
"General schedules are over there, against the back wall," the woman says, motioning with her forefinger.
"Thank you," Murray says, but the woman is already busy rolling her eyes at another customer.
Murray makes his way through the crowd of people to the display of bus schedules. He takes schedules for Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, and New York and stuffs them into his backpack, and then looks around for an open seat. He stands for a long time against the wall waiting for someone to leave.
When a seat is finally available, Murray sits down and pulls out his writing pad and pen. After twenty minutes of intensely observing, listening, and writing, he is distracted by a large man in an ill-fitting suit and scuffed loafers who sits down in the seat next to him.
"You some kind of reporter?" The man asks, sitting his briefcase and luggage between his feet.
"What's that?" Murray asks, looking up from his writing.
"I noticed you have been taking notes for about a half an hour, now. I was wondering if you are some kind of reporter."
"Sort of," Murray says dryly. "I'm a writer."
"What do you write?" The man asks with interest.
"For the moment, plays," Murray responds.
"My wife loves going to plays. Myself, I could take 'em or leave 'em. Have you written anything I might have seen?"
Murray looks up at the man. "Probably not," he replies.
There are several moments of silence.
"I am in sales. Aluminum siding. I'm taking courses for real estate, right now," the man announces proudly. Murray nods.
"I used to be in car sales," the man says. "Man, what a racket. That business was breaking my balls, you know what I mean? I was drinking too much. Almost cost me my marriage. My sister-in-law, she's a psychologist, says most of the car business is made up of alcoholics and drug addicts. She also says nearly everyone in the real estate business is neurotic. Personality disorders or some such thing." The man laughs heartily.
"What about writers?" Murray asks. "What's wrong with writers?"
The man laughs again. "Couldn't tell you. We don't have any writers in our family. My sister-in-law only gives running commentary on what the family does for a living." He laughs again.
The man thrusts his hand towards Murray. "Zach Taylor", he says.
"Barry," Murray replies. "Barry Yeldray."
"Glad to meet you, Barry."
Murray smiles and nods.
"Afraid of flying," Zach says.
"Come again?" Murray says.
"I'm afraid of getting on a goddamned airplane," Zach says, shaking his head. "I used to be all right with it back in my drinking days. I used to get plastered before I boarded and then drink straight through the entire trip. Now, though, well... I'm stuck riding the bus."
Murray nods, smiles, and returns to his notepad.
"You know," Zach begins again, "I'm heading out to Santa Fe for a convention. The owner picked me to go and find out what's happening in the field. It's because I've had the highest sales figures for the past seven months. Salesman of the month, seven times in a row," Zach says proudly.
"Sounds like quite an accomplishment," Murray replies.
"You think that's something, my son just graduated with his degree in Chemical Engineering and already has a job as a scientist for some big German-based firm. He's working on some top-secret composite material for the Stealth Bomber. The whole damned thing is held together with glue. Can you believe that?
"And my daughter is married to the Vice president of one of the top investment banking firms," Zach says.
"That should be useful," Murray says.
"Yeah, well, you know what they say, Barry. You can mess with a man's house, you can even mess with his wife, but don't ever try to come between a man and his money." Zach laughs and slaps his knee. "He's handling all of my investments," Zach continues. "The plan is to have over two million by retirement."
"With that much money you ought to be able to buy a captive audience," Murray says dryly.
"What's that?" Zach asks.
"Oh, nothing," Murray responds. "Just an inside writer's joke."
"Oh," Zach chuckles. "We have those in sales too. We had a lot of 'em in the car business. Plenty of them in aluminum siding too, though. For instance, we have a secret policy not to ever call and sell to anyone whose name sounds black."
"Interesting choice," Murray says.
"Well, you know, they have a reputation of not paying their bills. The owner says we should skip anyone whose name sounds black and if you get one by accident, then we should just hang up as soon as we know it."
"That's some system you got there. How exactly are you suppose to know just by talking to people on the telephone?" Murray asks.
Zach laughs heartily. "Oh, come on now, you're pulling my leg, aren't you? You can tell by the way they talk!"
Several people look over at Zach.
"I'm proud to say I have a perfect score. If ever I call one because their names are deceiving, I have a knack for catching it right away. I can usually know it just by the way they answer the phone!" Zach says proudly.
"Again, you really have a line of accomplishments. Far more than me, I must confess," Murray says.
Zach laughs and slaps his right knee. "Well now, Barry, I'm sure if we dug deep enough we'd find something you have done that would make people stand up and take notice."
"No doubt about that," Murray says, looking down at his notepad.
Several moments go by where neither man speaks. Finally, Zach says, "You ever been to Santa Fe?"
"Can't say as I have," Murray says, not looking up.
"This won't be my first. I've been there a few times before. It's like Berkeley... with better art and jewelry," Zach chuckles. "That's what my wife says. Anyway, same types of people. The women are real ugly there just like they are in Berkeley. Just as well..." Zach chuckles, "It will help ensure I stay honest, if you know what I mean." Zach winks and slaps Murray on the arm. Murray smiles and nods.
The woman at the Information Desk announces that the bus to Santa Fe is now boarding.
"Oh, hey, that's me. I guess I've got to take off." Zach stands up and tries to button his suit jacket, but fails. He sticks his hand out to Murray. "Well, Barry, I've got to say, this has been the best conversation I've had in ages. Listen, good luck with your plays."
Murray nods and says, "Thanks. Enjoy New Mexico."
"All right, then," Zach says grunting as he bends to pick up his briefcase and luggage. "Take care, buddy. Oh, I almost forgot. Here's my card. In case you ever need some aluminum siding."
Murray takes the business card. He holds his hand up to wave good-bye as Zach falls in to the crowd of people pushing to move through the boarding exit.
Murray returns to his notepad. He writes furiously until Zach and all of the other passengers are long gone from the city. Murray then puts away his notepad and searches through his pockets. With a handful of change he walks over to the bank of payphones. Reading the business card, he dials the number marked "office".
"Triple A Aluminum Siding, how may I help you?" A young woman asks.
"Ah, yeah, I need to talk wit de owner 'bout somethin' real importin," Murray says.
"Who's calling please?"
"Yeah, dis iz Tyrone Washington. Mista' Tyrone Washington. I need to talk wit de owner right away."
"Hold on, sir," the girl responds with a tone that says, "Okay, I'll do it, but only because I'm getting paid to do so".
"Sir?" the girl says a few seconds later, "Mr. Huffington is busy in a meeting right now. What is your call in regard to?"
"Money," Murray says with a tone of importance. "I just gave cash to one of your salesmen and after he lef' I looked at the receipt and realized I gave him more cash than the receipt shows."
"Hold on, sir. Let me see what I can do."
Several minutes pass. Murray paces as he waits. Finally, a man with a brusque tone gets on. "Gerry Huffington. What seems to be the problem?"
"Well, sir, like I was tellin' your assistan' there, my name iz Mista' Tyrone Washington and one of your salesmen was jus out to da house today and I gave him some money, but the receipt says a differen amount den what I done gave 'em."
"Who is the salesperson?" Huffington asks, perturbed.
"Well, now," Murray continues. "it's Taylor. Zach Taylor. See the problem is dat he gave a receipt for da wrong amount, but da wife says to me, she says, 'call right away because Mista' Taylor is goin' out-a-town'. I remembered dat he said there would be a delay in processing our order on the cause of he was goin' to Santa Fe, New Mexico. And so I thought I better jus call and get this straightened on out instead a' waitin' 'till Mista' Taylor gets back."
"How much money did you give him?" Huffington asks in an angry tone.
"Well, sir, two thousan' dollars. In cash. I didn't realize 'til he was already gone, but the receipt says here I only gave him two hundred."
"Give me your address and telephone number and I'll have a talk with Mr. Taylor and someone will get back to you within the next day or two," Huffington says in an irate tone.
Murray gives the phone number of Pizza Hut and the address of where he used to live years before.
"All right. Thank you for calling," Huffington says, barely concealing his anger.
"Well, all right den, you have a nice day now, Mista' Huffytin," Murray says and hangs up the receiver.
The grin on Murray's face broadens and soon the smile moves to a full-fledged snicker. He puts the business card in his shirt pocket, sits down, and begins writing again.
After several minutes have passed, Murray returns to the phone bank. This time he dials the number on the business card marked, "home".
"Hello?" A woman says.
"Yes. Hello. Can I talk to... Is this Mrs. Taylor, by any chance?" Murray says in a gruff tone.
"Yes," she replies.
"You and your husband were just in here about an hour ago? This is Jack Purnin from over at Lollipops."
"I'm sure you must be mistaken.....how did you get my name and number?" The woman asks.
"Zach Taylor was in here. He left about an hour ago. He was with.....I thought it might be you. Anyway, he forgot his briefcase. I opened it up and called the home number on his business card.
"I wouldn't have bothered except that he said he was taking off for an important business meeting in Santa Fe. I thought he'd need his briefcase. Like I said, I ordinarily would just leave it behind the bar.....that's what I usually do when someone forgets somethin' here. But Zach being a regular and one of our best customers and all......"
"I see," the woman says in a perturbed tone.
"I'll just keep it behind the bar here if you're gonna' send someone by to get it. Otherwise, when I get off duty, the boss will put it in the back office and then it's locked up if you don't come when he's here."
"Actually, Mr....uh....I'm sorry, what is your name again?"
"Jack Purnin."
"Mr. Purnin, if you would be kind enough to write down a message for my husband and keep it inside the briefcase?"
"Uh, okay," Murray says.
"Say, 'See you in divorce court'!" Mrs. Taylor shouts just before slamming the phone receiver down.
Murray chuckles and rubs his ear with the palm of his hand a bit before replacing the receiver. He returns to his seat and watches as a new group of people begin to flood into the station.
Murray continues to sit for another half an hour. Then, suddenly, he stands up, grabs his backpack and heads toward the payphones again. He takes his calling card from his wallet and punches in the numbers. While he waits for the connection, he takes Zach Taylor's business card out of his pocket and begins turning it over and over in his hand.
"Hello?" A woman says.
"Hi, ma', it's Murray."
"Murray, what's wrong?" The woman says in a worried tone.
"Nothing, mother. Why does something always have to be wrong?"
"You never call me otherwise," she laments.
"I just called to say 'hello' and to see how you were doing," Murray says.
"Oh. Well, I'm fine. I'm a little upset because my usual stylist, GiGi, was out sick today and they didn't have the consideration to call and tell me, and so after I schlep all the way downtown to get there, then they decide to tell me. So I let this other woman do my hair. They told me she had an excellent reputation. Ha! An excellent reputation for no talent, is what I say. You should see what she's done to my hair. I could cry.
"I raised a stink and refused to pay, of course. Oh, I'm glad you called. You'll never guess who I talked to today. Your Aunt Hilda. Ben's mother? Well, imagine how I felt to learn that her son bought her a new dress and flowers and took her to the Four Seasons for Mother's Day. That Ben, he's some prize. Of course, she asked me what I did for Mother's Day and I had to say that I spent Mother's Day on my hands and knees scrubbing the floors."
"You had to say that?
"Well, why not? I couldn't very well lie and say that my son took me to a fancy restaurant."
"I sent you a card, mother...... and I called. Besides, I live three thousand miles away."
"And have you ever once flown in to New York for Mother's Day? I don't even remember when you've been here last. It's been years. Anyway, oh, before I forget, someone called here looking for you. Can you imagine that? You haven't lived at home since before you left for college..."
"Who was it? Did they say what they wanted?" Murray asks.
"No. I don't know who it was. He didn't leave his name. He did try hard to convince me to give him your phone number and address out there in California. You're not in some kind of trouble again, are you?"
"He knew I lived in California, but called you?"
"No. I'm not sure if he already knew or not. I told him 'my son lives in the Bay Area now, but if I give you his number, he'll never speak to me again'. Because that's how you are, you know. Always putting me in a fix, scared to death you'll abandon me in my old age."
"Did he say anything else? Did he leave any kind of message?" Murray asks.
"No. Did you know that your cousin Seth is graduating soon with his fifth Master's degree? This one's in Geology, I think. Can you imagine? Five Master's degrees. Just imagine the opportunities he can have with that!"
"Well, so far, the only opportunity has been to live as a professional student for the last decade and a half. It doesn't pay great, but the hours are okay."
"Is that more sarcasm? Why do you always have to be so embittered? You know, you could have been successful if you had wanted to. There's no reason for you to get so nasty just because other people have done well for themselves. Oh, that reminds me, your Uncle Don is reviewing my will this week. I should tell you, if you can start acting like a human being, there will be a little something in there for you."
"And how, exactly, am I suppose to act like a 'human being'?" Murray asks.
"What's that? How come it's so noisy on your end? Are you having some kind of party? Can't you have the decency to wait to call me until it's quiet enough to even hear what I have to say?"
"I've got to go, ma'. Bye."
"Murray?"
"Good-bye, mother. I'll talk to you later."
Murray hangs up the receiver, puts his hands in his pockets and paces around the Greyhound station several times. Every so often he stops, runs his hands through his hair, mutters something, and then puts his hands back into his pockets and resumes pacing.
After half an hour of this, Murray grabs a "See the country on Greyhound" brochure and walks into the men's room, using the brochure to open the door and then dropping it to the floor. Once inside, he takes several paper towels from the dispenser and uses them to open, shut, and then lock the stall door, again letting them drop to the floor when he is finished.
Murray digs around inside his backpack and pulls out a thick, black indelible marker. On the wall behind the toilet seat he writes the words, "WE ARE ALL IMPOSTERS!!". He replaces the cap on the marker and opens his backpack, reconsiders, and then on the stall door writes, "VIS VITALIS, I AM LOSING IT!".
He puts the marker back into his backpack, grabs a fistful of toilet paper and unlocks the stall door, throwing the toilet paper on the floor on his way out. Once outside the restroom, Murray heads through the station and out the automatic doors.
On his way down the street Murray sees the homeless man who had screamed at him earlier. As he passes him, Murray reaches into his pocket, bends down and puts the aluminum siding salesman's card into the man's begging cup. Murray is several feet away before the man starts screaming.
"Hey! What the fuck is this? You goddamn Nazi Capitalist Pig!" Murray snickers and keeps on walking.
The story We Are ALL Impostors is Copyright 1998 by p.l.frank.
The collection of works called Fish Eggs For The Soul is Copyright
1998 by Brian Rickman.
Copy edited by Sara Fawbush,
editor of The Young Writer's Collection.