The other day a man got on the bus. He impressed me because he was so incredibly confident and nonchalant, despite the fact that his white cutoff jean shorts were showing at least three inches of pocket and that the sleeves of his flannel shirt had somehow been removed. By force.
He stepped onto the bus and everybody else recoiled slightly, but he didn't notice. Nothing could penetrate his pink headphones.
At first I thought this man might have been homeless, but his cell phone and iPod told me that he probably wasn't. No, he was just going about his business, riding the bus like everyone else. It was electric and magnetic. It was repulsive and strangely alluring. His pull was something frightening. Confidence, thy name is...whatever this guy's name is.
By the time I got off at my stop, there was a empty patch of seats radiating out from the man with the shorts, a mixture of sweat and pride oozing off of his brow and darkening the buffalo check of his shirt. How was it that his leather boots seemed to match his shorts so well? How was it that his hair, carefully coiffed into a wavy, flat mullet, could be as regal as a powdered wig? And does he engender these thoughts in every person he comes into contact with or just most?
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