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Bus Story: It’s Not Just the Beard

April 2, 2013

The temperate grey morning seems appropriate for a Tuesday. Coats are lighter than they have been, but there is the smell of a spring rain in the air. Into the rapidly filling bus in this mundane of days, he comes. Preceded by a window-rattling guffaw to a fellow traveler, he hauls his rather considerable bulk up and into the coach and, through no mean effort, maneuvers down the aisle. Despite his size, he is oddly light on his feet. He nods and smiles to many of the riders, and then spots a friend and launches his acreage into an empty seat (or two). Bellowing greetings, subsumed with a chortle, he regales his companion with his travails of the previous night, at times removing his hat to scratch his balding head, as if amazed at his very own exploits. Throughout, there are belts of great jowl-shaking laughter, which spreads tentatively throughout the riders, and smiles appear on previously placid faces. And although he is jovial, there runs an undertone of melancholy in all of his tale-telling. It is as though a single cellist is playing a dirge during a concert of John Philip Sousa marching band music. How the great knight found his way to our fair city, or where his travels take him, I cannot say. But to share a ride with Falstaff is a rare and wondrous thing.


From → Bus Stories

One Comment
  1. Katherine Cleland permalink


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