And there he was, on my bus once again, with all his glory. The old Mick took a seat in front of me, as if he wanted me to write a new blog about him. But what was this? He had a suitcase! Was I right to say he made it big off those tickets? Or was this just his house and everything of value, and his weathered appearance truly reflected his financial/housing status. While I write this blog, I would love to assume he found his calling and that the suitcase is for his travels down to a tropical island collecting retirement while sipping on margaritas. But he is just another old Mick from Boston, so that couldn't be farther from the truth.
As I sit on the bus I realize that this man is more of a mystery than I can deal with. As he sits down next to an African American woman (something he didn't look to certain of doing), he situates himself with his suitcase infront of him, and throws on a pair of reading glasses. What was it that he is going to perform you may ask? He takes out a huge stack of those crossword scratch tickets. O old Mick, if only you could kick this addiction. Unlike a child with a big bag of candy not knowing where to begin at mowing that bag down, he jumps into the stack of lottery tickets without hesitation. An elderly Hispanic woman watches him with an out most admiration, as if he is serving his country by scratching those puppies, with a stare as though she has now caught the crossword lotto ticket addiction.
He reaches his glasses out infront of him, with a nice greasy glaze on the glass, as greasy as his appearance, he is unsatisfied. He unzipps a small pocket of his suitcase and retrieves another pair of reading glasses. Are these his crossword ticket glasses? Now this is getting serious. He gets a phone call, which he picks up his same 90s flip phone, of which he still has not mastered answering without having it on speaker phone. He does his same old horse and pony show, "yuuuup", "yuuuup". But this time it's a shorter conversation. This time she tells him she'll call him back later, and was only asking him if he's on the bus, the conversation is over after two yups. Where is he going this time? And how come his phone conversation isn't longer than the hour and a half bus trip? Did he do good last time and he got this mystery woman the coffee machine she desired? He must be going somewhere of importance and this time he doesn't have time for his wife's lip. Or he must have gotten the overly admired coffee machine and our Mick has done so good to the point of not being nagged.
We arrived at his usual stop, the Moody St. bus and train connection stop. He gets off and heads to the bus overhead and sits down with a woman who helps him with his coffee. As interesting as all of this was to me, my analyzing was put on hold as I noticed we were going the wrong way down Main st. I must have gotten on the 70A, though I'm almost certain it said 70 when I got on it at Cambridge (sometimes I swear they're fucking with me). After walking through the backroads of waltham in 90 degree sun shinning weather to get farther west on Main Street, I realized that maybe I was supposed to have taken the wrong bus to see this Mick again. Maybe I was supposed to find more out about him, slowly and discretely. I don't know if I will see this spectacle of Irish proportions in any more of my travels from and to work, but you can bet your bottom dollar I will write what I can from what I see. Until then I wish him luck and that he gets what he is looking for.
What's in store for this blog?..... I'm working on ideas, but school gets in the way. So bare with me. Hopefully I'll explain my take on introversion and why I'm so anal about what music I listen to. If you don't know what I'm talking about or you don't know what the definition of introversion is, stay tuned.
-Alex
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