I sit in the back of the bus, up two stairs and in view of the fish-eye-lens camera. Should anything untoward happen, it’s only right that it be documented. It is my hope, if I am in a crash/lit on fire/forced to defend myself with the heel of my boot and my wits, that the whole thing be captured on video and serve as a how-to/what-not-to-do for future generations.
That said, I do not think I will have to defend myself against Ulrich here (not his real name).
Dagnabit, I just don’t know what to think of this guy.
On the one hand, it is rare that we come across this particular breed of urban hipster. Leather shorts, a slouch-style hat with – holy Hannah – a two-foot pheasant feather jutting from the band, my brows have furrowed themselves into braided plaits of concentration that refuse to let go.
This guy’s gonna give me a headache.
I force my brows apart with my hands, try to smooth out the grooves in my forehead.
Let’s look at the facts, shall we?
It’s a morning commute.
He looks sober.
We are months from Oktoberfest.
So what’s it all mean?
This is what we ask ourselves.
I mean, it’s not like Bavarian Boy just tripped down the mountain. I’ve heard him speak. He is, as we like to say, from around these parts.
He gets on the bus. Roughly 12 blocks later, he gets off the bus. There are clues in that he’s getting off at a stop that runs to the University of Minnesota.
Is this guy attending the U of M dressed as a Hummel figurine? Is that a thing now?
We are a little richer for the sight of a man in lederhosen.
And we are poorer in his absence.