Day 283: The strange man

There was a strange man got on our bus. The bus was loud but the strange man was louder. He was swaying at the bus stop, he swayed up the step, in water, in whisky, in dance. He was singing to Irish music on his phone. He had on an old waxed cotton jacket, smelling of fishing boats and cigarettes and rope. He tried to take a seat but he fell down and he didn't seem concerned and he pulled himself up and adjusted his threadbare hat and carried right on singing.

No one paid attention. We looked out of the windows. We were tired from offices and libraries and long shifts shouldering burdens and we thought, collectively, Go right on. Be that way. We don't care.

The strange man looked around, he asked some people how they were doing, they nodded and turned away. He looked at two girls, and we clenched our teeth, but he told them only It's a good night, then his eyes went roving on.

He talked to himself. We were tired from long shifts and we mostly looked at phones, out of windows, but we half watched when someone new got on the bus, the vague sport of what would happen. Everyone new was being tested; everyone sitting down was the old guard. We wanted to see the moment the new people discovered, whether they would sit beside him without realising, how that would play out. We were tired but we half watched for this.

Or we half watched the strange man himself, squinted a little, tutted just a little, silently to ourselves. We were doing badly, we were lonely and disappointed and lost, but we weren't the strange man. We all had at least that.

The strange man coughed a hacking cough and swayed and sang to his Irish song. The bus moved on up the hill. A middle-aged couple in matching felt coats and scarves sat down opposite the strange man. The strange man watched the couple a long time, started talking, and the couple stared ahead.

The bus got full and the strange man stood up to offer a woman his seat. The woman said No, don't be, and the strange man said Hey, it was, all was, come, all come - he said some strange thing, the woman said some flushed thing, moved off to stand down the bus. The strange man shook his head, shook in offence or disbelief, sat himself back in his swaying lagoonal glow.

We looked at phones, out of windows.

I'm sorry. That's what the strange man said to the couple. I'm sorry it's like this. I've lost... my. I've lost my... son. How do you carry on. How do you carry on when you've lost your son.

He said more, but we couldn't hear, no one could hear save the couple, and they weren't in the mood for talking. The bus moved on.