It’s a very chilly Fall morning; the sun is low on the horizon still and dawn sends a pink mist over the mountains to the North as I wait for the bus.  I climb aboard half asleep and settle in my favorite spot, wrapped in gloves and scarf and Muse’s new music, my Kindle on JP Moreland.

Across from me is an awkward young man I assume to be a college student.  He has beautifully golden blond waves that tangle in a thousand cowlicks, and a hint of ginger lies in the three-day stubble across his jaw.  Glasses sit crookedly on his nose and I notice a healthy amount of scotch tape holds the right earpiece to the lens portion. My eyes are drawn downward and I see his tee shirt – Halo Reach. Over it is a circa 1984 leather bomber jacket, worn to its last.  Across his lap he grasps a bright blue Under Armour duffle bag that appears to be completely empty.  What, I wonder, will fill it on the way home?  I continue reading but am distracted as he gestures to the empty seat next to him.  He is patting it and moving his head – the way I do when I call my dog up onto the couch – but I cannot see whom he is addressing.  No one moves, and I feel a moment’s embarrassment on his behalf.  ‘Perhaps he’s one of the strange ones,‘ I think, then return to my book.  A few stops later he is still trying desperately to communicate with someone, and finally a girl moves from a spot a few rows up to sit next to him.  I’m still sort of embarrassed…did he just wear her down?  Did she grow tired of the unwanted attention being drawn to her?  She is a beautiful girl, dusky skin and curves wrapped in jeans and a brilliant red Seattle University tee.  She is reading a paper of some kind and appears deeply involved in it. The young man is smiling broadly now and pulls out a cell phone to send a text.  ‘Triumph!’ communicated to a friend, I assume.  I read on in my book but glance up as we reach the freeway; my eyes are drawn to the pair again in mild curiosity.  The man’s arm is now around his companion, and he is lightly brushing her back.  Either he moves very quickly or they know each other better than it appeared because now her head tilts, then rests on his shoulder – altogether it’s a surprise ending to this little vignette.

We near downtown and at the first tunnel stop a man gets on.  He’s very slightly built with a riot of brown curls that flow down into a full beard – he seems top heavy, as if his diminutive limbs can’t support that hair, so he might topple over at any minute.  As he gets closer to me I notice several things about him that keep my attention.  He’s very unkempt; dirty, in fact.  He’s wearing denim shorts cut off at the knee, a tee shirt that once must have been white but now is somewhere on the spectrum between filth and grime.  A dingy green golf sweater rounds out the ensemble, and he cradles in his hands a simple woven basket (the type Italian restaurants use to serve a loaf of bread, perhaps).  He sits in a seat near me but across the aisle, facing me at an angle.  I can’t help continuing to study him covertly, wondering as I always do about the story behind the person.  I finally notice that he is wearing no shoes.  No socks either – he’s barefoot.  In the basket that is now on his lap, still held protectively, is a book whose title I cannot read and, of all things, a football helmet.  I sit and ponder for a moment; where are his friends and family?  Is he living in this way by choice?  What circumstances converged to bring him to the bus this morning, in the cold, with nothing to keep him warm?  What significance does the helmet hold?  Memories of someone he loved, or is it maybe a gift for someone else?  A talisman?  He gets off at the central downtown station - quiet, diffident, and alone.  I feel the tears building as I think about it, so I do the only thing I can in the situation: say a prayer.