I met a guy on the bus. I had my youngest with me in the pram and he had his walker so we shared the space in the bus for prams and wheel chairs.
He was the kind of disheveled man that gives me suspicions that he has had a life with too much alcohol.
He was nice and friendly and we talked about nappies when he had little babies (he had three children and four grandchildren) and nappies of today and other baby stuff. And such a happy and carefree life my little fellow still had.
He said that his neighbor next door was a sweet lady that lent him cigarettes in the middle of the night if needed. The man was not even sixty, lived in an elderly home and looked like seventy. I wondered about the “sweet lady”. Who was she? I couldn't imagine my mother (a little older than this man) appreciating a next door neighbor asking for cigarettes in the middle of the night.
When he showed me all the cigarettes he had bought to make it until the next day I said that if he smoked that much he should consider to smoke less. He gave me a look that might have meant that smoking was the smallest of his problems or that I should mind my own business.
He brought out a can of beer from his pocket and gave it a longing look. He put it back, sighed and said that there was still some time left on the bus before his stop.
I wonder about his life and his family. Even if he claimed to have had a good life after all, I don’t believe that all had been roses. What stories were hidden in him?
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