As he
approached, in the
dark and the
noise of the
street,
I heard him sort of talking to himself, and he
seemed young, with the
demeanor almost of a
teenager. But as he approached, I saw his
big glasses, his
wrinkles, the way his
sleek toque made him look
out of place and
dorky. He
hummed to himself as he walked, but he was
far away and I couldn't make out the
melody.
He spoke to me. I have an aversion to lonely strangers at bus stops who try to make conversation. There are only so many times you can say "Good skiing weather, eh?" before it gets tired. He had a slight English accent, as though he'd moved to Canada sometime, but not long, before I was born. And he didn't seem to be one bit ashamed of asking me questions about my personal life, about work, about everything.
I answered as best I could, stiff and curt. His posture, meanwhile, was loose and relaxed, an actor after a warm up. Still, he hummed to himself, and suddenly I could make out what he was humming. It was Nirvana, "Come As You Are". I was floored. The old man at the bus stop was humming a song by Nirvana.