Heroes

How is it that I, as a writer, build the heroes in my stories? Do I snatch them whole from the ether? Invent them new from my own imagination? Choose a favorite from writers past and change the name to protect me, the guilty? The answer is ‘yes’ and more.

And the ‘more’ is people watching.

I recently flew into Denver. Those of you familiar with our area know that the airport is out-of-town. My way home includes I-70 which during rush hour resembles a parking lot. To avoid driving in that mess I ride a city bus into downtown and transfer to the light rail. Public transport is a treasure trove for people watchers.

At the airport the bus driver stowed my suitcase along with that of a young woman, probably not more than early twenties and possibly younger than that. I was prepared with correct money for my fare. She was not. The bus driver does not give change. He waited patiently while we passengers got together the right change for the young woman. 

I carried my laptop bag and the tiny young woman carried a guitar case. She was well and truly tattooed and had found-art materials woven into her multi-colored hair. She asked the driver if there were hotels near downtown where she could stay the night. The bus driver suggested that she probably would be better off staying in a hotel away from the center of town because those downtown tend to be pricey. (I’m not the only one who makes up stories about people I don’t know.) I watched and listened as the driver and my fellow riders gave her advice about where to stay .

And my mind was off and racing with stories for this potential heroine who would survive great difficulties.

Then we parted ways, I to my train into the ‘burbs and she to another bus to become a rock star or a super spy.

But, like one of my favorite songs, ‘That’s not what I come here to talk about.’

The train was not very full when I got on. In my car there was a forty-ish woman dressed for office, a middle-aged couple with their bicycles, and me. At various stops more people got on and the bicyclists got off. A man also dressed for office work carried his briefcase. Some young people probably not old enough to drive—the boys in baggy shorts and the girls dressed for the sun. A college-age young man, dressed nicely, stood near the door too cool to hold the pole for balance.

Then a group of men fresh from a day of physical labor boarded and one of them sat across from me. He carried a back pack with a plastic tyrannosaurus rex sticking out its front pocket. He was missing some teeth (the man not the dinosaur,) his hair was unkempt, and he smelled..

The college-aged young man derisively commented about the man being ‘pungent.’ The man acknowledged his odoriferous state but credited his day at hard labor and took no offense. He talked about working in building demolition and how dangerous it was. He said his brother died doing the same work.

At the next stop a young father got on with his toddler, leaving her to stand in the aisle while he parked the stroller. The train started and the child fell. The office lady, the snaggle-toothed man, and I all tried to catch her. Our efforts served only to frighten the little girl who cried to break your heart.

She sat sobbing in her daddy’s lap until the man across from me asked if she liked dinosaurs. She quieted, tears pooling in her big blue eyes. He offered her his T-Rex. And she smiled. She accepted the toy and listened while he explained what kind of dinosaur it was and gave her a short natural history lesson.

When the clean, well-dressed, college-aged man left the train, the little girl paid no attention. She had eyes only for the ‘pungent’ man. When he left the train, she waved to him and watched out the window as he walked away.

And I had material for a hero.