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SHADOW OF THE CROSS

The electronic time sign stated the next bus would be in three minutes. “That was five minutes ago…I’ll be late,” he said to no one in particular as they stood around the stop like a loose heard of cattle waiting for fodder.

The night was closing in, a cold wind blowing up from the harbour.  With traffic thinning, neon signs flashed in pools of rain water caught in pot holes along the footpaths.  Again he looked behind and caught his reflection in the clothes shop window.  Gazing at a distorted view of himself he considered Froggy the nickname they called him behind his back.   For a few seconds he considered the image, a lined blotchy face, prominent eyeballs, receding hair, ample cheeks, large nose, thin lips and pointed chin.  Swaying slightly, he muttered: “You handsome devil boy.”

Looking back to the sign, he then noticed the medicine cabinet, or at least the young man clutching what looked like a cabinet.  Slightly taken aback at the sight he smiled. “Medicine man,” he declared.  Just then the bus arrived and the herd formed a shuffling queue.  Allowing the crowd to force him forward, he faced the driver and fumbled for his social welfare bus pass.
“Move on Mulligan,” the driver commented when he saw him and indicated the back of the bus.  Mulligan made his way to the centre and flopped into a vacant seat.  Gradually the bus filled but no one took the seat beside him.

In front he spotted the Medicine Man in the television seat and studied him. Tall and lean with long curly hair and a sort of half smile on his round face, as if he had only just remembered the punchline of a joke told to him earlier.  He sat still with the piece of furniture balanced on his knees.  Painted a shiny white, it had two round knobs on the front panels.  After a few stops the city fell away and they were in the outskirts in the parks and avenues of endless housing dotted with shops, fast food joints, mini cab offices and places of worship where passengers pressed the bell and alighted.  The seat next to the young man was now vacant.  Mulligan made his way forward.  “A dirty night Missus.” he said to an elderly women who glanced at him.  Clutching the overhanging safety bar, he stopped to face the long haired young man.
“A grand cabinet,” he said.
The man just smiled.
“Fit a lot of medicine into it?”
“It is not a medicine cabinet,” the young man answered politely.
Mulligan jerked upright with the motion of the bus.
“Yeah, a bit big for a few headache tablets.”
Again the man just smiled.
“I often get headaches,” Mulligan muttered.” The mother says ‘tis the drink.”
The bus turned a corner and Mulligan swayed with the force almost falling on top of the young man.
“Sorry ‘bout that boy,” he said, studying the piece of furniture.
“A bathroom cabinet, yeah, a bathroom cabinet,” he continued. “You can pack it with all that stuff you see on television, shampoo and conditioner, and dee oh der rant and face wash for men…for men…face wash for men…I ask you what is the world coming to…”
The bus halted outside a church.  A long shadow of a cross from the flood lighting streaked across the interior of the bus. Mulligan blessed himself awkwardly.  “Church of the Sacred Heart,” he announced.  “All sinners repent here,” he laughed.  “The mother loves the Sacred Heart,” he said raising his voice, addressing no one in particular.
Mulligan looked closely at the young man who continued to half smile and gaze into the distance.
“Not to mention the Child of Prague,” he said louder.  “And as for Saint Anthony, she thinks he is a real saint.”
A few women laughed and Mulligan turned sharply to peer at them.  Then he fumbled in his pockets and withdrew his bus pass, a rosary entwined in it.
“What time is it?”
No one answered.
“I can’t be late for the rosary.” 
Looking around as if searching for a familiar face, he glanced towards the driver who was looking at him in the mirror.  “The mother loves the rosary, the hail Holy Marys, the glory bees –the poor lost children of Eve, the words like a torrent, like a chant, flowing forth wrapping us all up in the rhythms of religion.”
The bus started again and he lurched forward.
“A kitchen cabinet,” he blurted out, pointing to the piece of furniture.  The long haired young man shook his head.  The bus slowed and stopped and the door opened with a gush of noise.
“Mulligan,” the driver called out.  Swaying towards the door he stepped down gingerly onto the pavement but turned back, clutching the handrail, to face the last passenger.
“What it is,” he demanded.
“A shrine,” the owner said as the door closed on Mulligan’s surprised face and the bus headed for the final stop when the young man exited and walked slowly through a tree lined park  still clutching the piece of furniture and came to a small bungalow set back from the road.  Someone opened the door.  Inside he placed the shrine in the candle lit front room, gently pulled the knobs, opened the doors and gazed on an icon of Buddha. 

Closing his eyes he slowly began to chant, to chant with a growing intensity, for good luck and guidance, on tomorrow and the opening of the city’s first Buddhist Meditation centre.