He begged me for change and I told him I wasn’t a revolutionary.

So earlier this month, I was sitting on the bus with a suitcase. I planned to take it to a friend for storage while I move. During high traffic, in July heat, I went straight to the first available seat.I felt pretty good, I managed to get a spot by air conditioning vent. It felt like satisfaction in the summer heat. Then two stops into my ride, a man sat down next to me. A man reeking heavily of stale cigarettes and yesterday's urine. I was trapped.

My suitcase, thirty kilos of books and clothes wedged itself tightly between my knees and the seat in front of me. My purse sat on my knees, the strap, caught on a hook for the window shade. There was no way to maneuver on the sweltering bumbling bus. No escape. Not with all the baggage.

I wished I had a handkerchief to cover my face, or a sweater with a hoodie, even. Something to shield discreetly my poor nose. Because, as much as my senses were bombarded with the unkempt unshaven man who likely last showered only before last pesach, I still didn’t want to likewise offend him. Even though I don’t like the creepy way his gaze lingers on my face. His brown eyes peering through a mess of matted ginger beard. I had to find relief.

I tried taking shallow nasal breaths but this only exacerbates the stench. I tried breathing through my mouth but nearly wretched at the leathery sound of a fart transcending the crescendo of the bus. I frantically covered my face with my hand, my wrist, nestle my whole face in the crook of my elbow but no. no. nothing helps.

I try burrowing into the flab of my upper arm and suddenly decide to take shelter in the last refuge of scent, my deodorized pit. Finally, I felt some relief in my own familiar scent trying to lean casually although to fool the fellow travelers. No, I’m not inhaling my own antiperspirant which, I thank G-d, is effective as the advertisements claim, except for its ability to attract the lawless hords of opposite sex.  Yeah,  I'd rather fellow passengers not know I’m spending the half hour of Aggrippas traffic inhaling the remnants of Axe antiperspirant off my pits. And I'd rather the stinky hobo pseudo not know I'd rather smell my own pit in July than inhale his noxious fumes.

Though, I hardly think he noticed. He seemed a bit schizophrenic; saving a seat for a friend that never boarded and lashing out angrily at the half dozen commuters who tried to sit. Yes, he must have been schizophrenic looking slightly above my head and smiling a gummy yellow grin. He said I looked like a Bedouin.Accidentally I laughed. In response, he offered to escort me home and unpack. 

I alighted terrified he might follow. I even contemplated getting off a stop late and tremping (hitchhiking) back just to throw him off the trail. Though  it seemed excessive with the suitcase. The bus pulled away. From the window, he called into the wind: I will see Leah Imenu, daughter of priests servant of Bedouins at a hall of great meetings by an altar of roasting meat with the sun high on the horizons and shadows hard to come by. He must have been schizophrenic because God only grants prophecy to children and fools. Fools being a Talmudic euphemism for crazy people like this smelly farty guy. I shook it off and dragged my suitcase up a half a dozen stories to my apartment.

His prediction turned out eerily accurate, close to prophecy. I did see him again; panhandling for agurot by mouth of the tunnel at Binyaney Ha Uma, the national convention center. He sat on the curb jingling a plastic cup half-full of coins. He surrounded himself with plastic bags and a created for himself a makeshift awning out of a cardboard box, creating little shade in the bright day. His little setup was situated by a hot dog stand. Thought wasn’t really a full-blown hot dog stand but a mobile makollet stocked with gum and bizli with a superfluous contraption of rolling hotdogs dating back to the early British Mandate. Lazily spinning, the meat turned round hypnotically in the full noon sun. I didn’t remember him at first. Several weeks passed and I’d seen many haggard beggars since. I do live in Jerusalem. Though, he remembered me. He called to me. He called me the bag lady, which I thought was ironic, but I didn’t laugh.

 I started to walk away and he started screaming. He begged me for change and I told him I wasn’t a revolutionary. He didn’t laugh. I walked away, feeling horribly guilty and somewhat dirty. I guess the joke didn’t translate. Walking away, I thought I have some change in my purse. Buried at the bottom, I hate the idea of fishing through old tampon wrappers, and expired bus transfers for a half-shekel coin. Gold and molded with a Davidic harp; It’s just a half shekel, not even a dime. I took another step away, took a sip of my extra large ice cofee and started to dig.