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!”.