Waiting for a bus one day in Elizabeth, I see a guy in his seventies coming up the street. He stops next to a guy sitting behind me.
“Can you tell me how to get to America? I know it’s around here somewhere, but I’m lost. Which way to America?”
I don’t overhear the reply. He continues, to me this time: “Do they believe in Jesus there? I heard some talk about Jesus over on North Broad Street there, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.” A pause, then: “You know, they gave us sandwiches before. Mine was bologna and some cheese on two slices of bread, white bread. Had mine with some mustard and some mayonnaise. Boy, was she good!”
I wonder if he’s found it yet. Sometimes I’m not sure if I recognize it myself.