At the Park & Ride, three elderly gentlemen climb aboard.  Each of them brings a small “carry-on” sized suitcase.  The first time I saw them I assumed they were going on a trip – but this is now the seventh or eighth time we’ve traveled together and at each encounter my curiosity grows.  Sometimes it’s a week or two that they don’t ride, but it’s been as often as three days in a row.  Occasionally a woman rides with them, whom I assume to be a wife; but not today.  One of the men sits next to me on the side facing seats, another sits across from us, and the third traipses to the back of the bus.  I am not surprised when the two nearest me begin speaking in their own language.  I am not an expert but it is definitely eastern European…I would say Polish, maybe.  They are in their late sixties at the youngest.  The man next to me wears serviceable khaki pants, sneakers of no discernible brand, a plaid work wear shirt with an army green quilted vest over it.  He wears a cap – it’s literally a trucker’s hat, but not the kind the hipsters wear…he reminds me of my father, who wore them on the weekends.  Its navy color has faded and is travel-stained, and advertises something I don’t understand; maybe a worker’s union?   He also, like my father, wears large, square, horn-rimmed glasses, a holdover from the 1980’s.  The lenses are thick…very thick, and magnify the many lines around his eyes.  His skin is onion-skin, pale, translucent and speckled with signs of age.  His friend across from me wears what my dad called dungarees.  Jeans, but definitely work wear jeans – and a safari-type jacket and a newsboy cap.  They continue to converse and I wonder what they discuss.  I wonder, what’s in the suitcases?  I wonder, where do they go with those suitcases?  What could they possibly need them for?  Why do they always travel together?  Do they speak English at all?

Also at the Park & Ride a young man enters, probably about 16-17.  He’s wearing the thug uniform, jeans with the waistband practically down to his knees, striped boxers (I shouldn’t even know that…), an over-large black t-shirt with some kind of graphic on it, a varsity style jacket and a baseball cap (price ticket still attached...I know I’m dating myself, but I always think of Minnie Pearl when I see that.)  The ubiquitous ginormous diamond earring is in his left ear.  I have seen him before; he’s quiet and listens to his iPod, mostly. I mention him today only because at the 7-11 bus stop another similarly uniformed young man hops on and as he walks down the aisle, the first boy starts to get animated.  He pulls out the earbuds and grabs the second young man’s arm and shouts, “Pooh Bear!”.  They bro-hug, and I can’t help but smile.

On my other side is a man, in his mid-twenties, I think.  He is a fairly regular rider but this is the first time he has sat next to me.  My grandmother’s generation would have described him as “looking like a poet”.  He has chin-length wavy brown hair, a long, delicate face with a prominent nose and gray eyes.  He pauses often as he reads his kindle to push his hair out of his face.  I can’t see what he’s reading (yes, I’m nosy, I always check - can’t help it!) but every so often I see him from the corner of my eye – he touches the reading pane and lifts his chin in silent laughter.  Now I really want to know what he’s reading….  He wears non-descript clothing, chinos, a jacket, all in neutrals.  Across his shoulder he wears a type of messenger bag.  It’s very small, almost like an old-time mailman’s bag – its leather is very carefully distressed.  He’s nearly a walking cliché and I want to know how much of his appearance evolved naturally and how much is carefully affected.  I suspect it’s almost all natural.  We near the tunnel and all of us who are addicted to our smart phones pull them out for the last check before we lose service.  The Poet is no different – he brings out his iPhone and then I know that he and I are friends, and I have a strong suspicion of what he has been reading.  His home screen reads “Don’t Panic!”.

The sun sets early here, and apparently with it goes some people’s sanity.  It’s early evening and yet the atmosphere in the tunnel is more like midnight…there are some strange folks wandering on the southbound side.  Someone walks in front of me as I lean against the marble wall, tired and wishing for my bus.  I am completely unable to ascertain this person’s gender, although I lean toward male, so I’ll use that for my description.  He is about 5’9”, Asian, and I would guess of Korean descent; shoulder-length black hair in long, messy curls.  His face is covered with inexplicable clown-like makeup, the whiteface faded until it is a strange grey color, red oversized lips drooping, bizarre black marks smeared and blurred across his cheeks.  He wears some kind of enormous cargo pant that swirls around his ankles as he walks – it flows as if it were made of silk but his mien belies that extravagance.  His t-shirt is white and has some sort of graffiti print, and over it is a heavily used vintage Levi’s jacket strewn with dozens of buttons crying out slogans and affiliations. “That might be too much flair…”, I think to myself.  But we’re not done – he also has on a Hello Kitty backpack from which dangles all sorts of feathers and hoohas.  It’s quite a sight to see.  He has a companion with him, a nondescript sort who flies right under my radar;  I’m too busy watching this guy without appearing to be watching him.

The bus pulls up and as it does, this person starts laughing maniacally, loudly, so that it echoes throughout the tunnel.  I wonder if security will let him board?  Apparently he is not strange enough to pose a threat because he does board, and sits in one of the farthest back seats, he in the aisle, his companion at the window.  He still giggles loudly at intermittent intervals.  I climb into my seat and and immediately pull out my kindle.  It’s one of those rides…

Suddenly the clown sneezes theatrically and then laughs.  As he sneezes he tosses his head around and does not cover his nose or mouth.  It’s the most efficient way to spread germs I’ve ever seen.  I feel very sorry for the people he sits near.  Whatever reaction he was looking for must have occurred because he sneezes, then laughs, again.  And again.  And again.  Everyone turns to stare – I refuse and keep my eyes firmly planted on the screen in front of me. (Reading The Hobbit, for about the 275^th time, in preparation for the movie.) This continues, off and on, interspersed with loud incomprehensible speech and strange facial expressions, for about 25 minutes.  Everyone is annoyed and frankly disturbed by this guy, but what do you do in that situation?  He’s so downright weird that no one wants to talk to him, and he’s far enough away in the double length bus that the driver has no influence.  Eventually he gets off and we collectively sigh with relief.  His exit is quiet, almost humble, as if he’s exhausted his performance for the evening.  It’s anti-climatic and I feel a strange disappointment…like when a car chase ends in peaceful capture.  Where’s the show?!