Andrushka

Today on my bus to Union, I sat watching as droplets traced their peculiar paths across the window, only to have their individual identities lost with a splash each time we plowed through a puddle. Two rows behind me, a man held a conversation with himself. At first I thought he was using a cellphone, but a collection of quick glances confirmed he was not. If he's not a paranoid schizophrenic, he sure does a good impression of one. He commiserated with an imaginary friend about the persistence of other voices. He's plagued by questions as part of a government plot to keep him from thinking straight, because, "That's what They want." Musical interludes accompanied his rants and occasional guffaws. He had a rather nice voice, but the do-do-dobeys he sang were largely tuneless. Up at the front, an obese woman talked to the bus driver about "negative people," complaining that one of the drivers never said anything positive the whole time he was driving this route. The irony of her complaint never donned on her. A third man sat, head leaned against the cold glass, with earphones constructing his own private world away from the rest of us. I like to think it was a forest of Grieg or Mozart meadow, but, most likely, it was less pastoral. Perhaps his music drowned in dark notes, as grey and damp as the day. As we turned onto Calvert Street, I wondered if there was a puddle so great the splash could unite us all.

Posted by Scott on 08 March 2006 at 3/08/2006 09:31:00 AM | Permalink