I didn’t even notice him at first. Just another worn-down guy at the bus stop. His black sneakers and khakis were common enough. His green windbreaker wasn’t anything special. His knit cap was fraying. His red whiskers had accumulated for a week or so—not long enough to qualify as a beard. Nothing worth mentioning about him.
Then he started talking. He walked in erratic circles as he did. He was quite emphatic that the US ought to help Greece. “We need to help Europe with the next bailout!”
At first, I thought he was crazy. Ratty guys holding forth aren’t uncommon around here. They yell, they mumble, they wave signs, they bob up and down like corks. Every one has his own gimmick. They all get their message across. This fella seemed to have a little more sophistication, though. He still walked in wild circles. Still gestured accusingly at passers-by. But he seemed to know something. This was rare among bus stop ranters.
He spoke as if reciting to himself. ”The UK chose not to use the Euro. They’re part of the European Union, but don’t have the same currency.” Maybe he was taking a course in international finance? It’s not the right time of the year for exams, and he he doesn’t look like a student. He could just be a very non-traditional student. Or an extraordinarily dingy professor. Wouldn’t be the first.
Whoever he was, he kept on. People kept walking by, kept steering clear of him. Nothing else he said gave me any clue who he was. He was either crazy or connected to the university. Sometimes it’s hard to tell in this town.