Waiting to get on the bus, I stepped back to let an old man get on first. He smiled a worn smile and ushered me in front of him declaring, "No, no...you are an artist...you go." I don't know if it was my folder of music, my clothes, or my attitude that gave it away...and I still don't know what he meant by the comment, but I know it stayed with me. It was the perfect set up for the ride I was about to take.
As I walked in I was greeted by loud, crazy mumbling from the back of the bus. "Oh god Charley...Oh god Charley, stop." My eyes fell on an old man sitting with a large plastic bag filled with many other plastic bags at his feet. He was in an off-white loose shirt covered in a ripped traditional Jewish Tzitzit and jean overalls. One of the breast pockets was filled to the seams with pens, pencils, forks, and knifes. The sister pocket was bulging with receipts and other extraneous papers while a small little baby pocket was stuffed with toothpicks. I sat near him and listened to his chanting. "Oh god Charley, stop. Don't excite the book keeper. Where am I? Oh god Charley.." He was wearing a hat that was covered completely in buttons, many of which display Hebrew words or Jewish symbols. One stood out amid the small circles on his head, and that was a large rhinestone pin that was the word "Jazz." On his chest some of the bigger pins lay closer to his heart. He had changed these, taped new words over old ones to make his own message. "I've survived damn near everything," "Talk about nothing," and one that had a picture of the Macintosh Apple symbol and said "Grain of Emptiness." When you don't have that much...why not keep everything and anything you can? "Oh god Charley...on the fourth day what did adam call that celebration? Oh the fourth day...what did adam call that celebration? A trinity of light. Oh god Charley...make my day like hell, said the book keeper." Every so often he looked inside his bag of bags...what was he looking for? Every time he remembered another song or ramble to share with the bus he started loudly with gusto. At this point, I was starting to admire this old man. "Where's the moon? Where's the moon? Where's the moon? Have you seen men in black? It's about the galaxy..." His beard was wispy and yellowish white...it matched his old shirt. As I texted all of my observations in a draft in my phone, I started to think of the significance of this strange man. People like this can't just be ignored like the rest of the bus is doing...do they hear him? People don't just become like this...what on earth has gone on in his life? He has organized all of his little objects, and gone through the effort to collect them. He may be crazy but he knows what he wants. He has altered buttons to make them say what he believes...most sane people dont even know what they believe, or what they want. He is someone to be admired...
I was so consumed with watching this man that I hardly noticed the other old character sitting next to him, apparently oblivious to his loud neighbor. He was completely "normal" looking on the outside, until I followed a familiar sound and looked down to the ground. His old, dusty, Nike shoes were quietly tap dancing while he sat on the bus bench. Now his history was consuming my imagination...he held a large bag that could have held dance shoes...but who knows...maybe those steps are those of the past...ones that I am just now struggling to learn. He could have been a broadway dancer, he could have been a failed musical theater performer...he could be an old man learning how to tap. He got up at his stop, smiled at me, and walked slowly off the bus on his knobby, shaking legs.
Following him was my old, Jewish friend. I looked up at him as he put his hand up and blessed me from left to right saying, "Peace and Love..." and walked off yelling "Oh god Charley!" on the top of his lungs. I sat thinking for the rest of my ride...the three people on this bus were definitely connected...as I stepped on the bus I was crowned an artist, and as I left I was blessed by a crazy man. But was he crazy? Or was he just an artist, and therefore be let on the bus first? And will the other one be me? Will I be tap dancing quietly in the dust with legs that can't walk anymore? I don't know...but then again, I'm only an 18 year old artist. Those three old men have seen more than I can process...and here they go influencing and teaching me without even knowing it.
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