At the same time, there's another Universal Truth about buses in London. In the roughly a year or so I've been a Londonder, I think I could tell some story or another about every single one of my rides. Or maybe I'm just a very bored individual who notices things when taking public transport. Stupid things, funny things, weird things, downright scary things...but today's thing tops them all. And I solemnly swear that I have embellished nothing.
Bus 155 to Clapham. I'm sitting by the window, vacant seat beside me. Tyipical tramp-drunkie-lunatic-allergictowater, with a beard that looks like it could be hosting an entire ecosystem of its own, sits by my side with a polite Good Morning, madam. I offer the shadow of a smile, start breathing through my mouth as discretely as I can, and keep on staring through the window.
"You look sad."
At first, I don't know if he's speaking to me. And second, I'm not expecting that. I look at Tramp, but say nothing. He's looking at me very intently.
"Yeah, you do. You look sad. "
I look at him for a second. "I'm not," I say a bit defensively for my taste, trying to cut the conversation and looking again through the window, but the statement out of the blue has taken me aback.
"Yes you are. I've been sad most of my life, I can tell. You are sad. Lovely ladies like you shouldn't be sad. Is it a fucking bastard, the one making you sad? You shouldn't bother, we men are shite. Some fella will be for you."
I can't help but smile.
"Maybe. But no, it's not. And really, I'm not sad."
"Someone died?"
"Not that I know of. I hope not."
"It's not a bad thing to be sad, you know. I'm always drunk. Not always, but everyday. I drink because I'm a sodding bastard, but sodding bastars can be sad too, you know."
"Sodding bastards probably have good reasons to be sad. I know."
Tramp stares at me. He looks suddenly different, sober. Almost, almost, like he's not a Trump in the bus anymore.
"I have to get off in the next one, so you will can [sic] breath with your nose again soon, madam. Whatever is making you sad, tell them to fuck the fucking hell off. Nothing matters, life's all shit. But at times you can find your way in the shit, you know. And shit changes, too. One day is one shit, the next s'another shit. And that is a good thing. And sometimes the shit is gone. Just like that, fucking gone. I like your eyes. Your eyes see things. Your shit will be gone."
I don't know about my shit, but my eyes are not seeing much at the moment. Not even blinking, I'm sure of it.
"Have a good day, madam. Been a pleasure," and he does a small bow with the head.
"Been, indeed," and I mean it. " Have a good day, you too."
Tramp quickly gets off the bus. I still breath through my mouth for a bit longer. I am almost ready to take my phone out and take a picture of him, but I don't dare to picture people in buses, and anyway he's on the opposite side, so no luck.
As I was saying, you never know when the shit is about to change.
Night night.
x
