Two weeks ago, my metro line caught fire. It seems to do that a lot. We walked up to the station to find the entry roped off and police officers milling around the stop. The person who hands out a local paper each morning told us that it was shut down and to find a man in a white shirt. We found him in the middle of the road and I decided not to run into traffic to question him. We waited for the shuttle to take us to an open station, but each one that rolled past was already full. Thinking there was no way that’d work, we decided to find the bus downtown.
Our line finally came and on we stepped. We sat down, ready for a bus full of slightly annoyed, but generally quiet people—as the morning commute usually is. Our struggles with the metro made us later than usual and, because of that, we had an even more entertaining crowd on the bus. Along with people struggling to get to work, there was a young aspiring musician.
Tony annoyed the passengers around us, but we embraced the hilarity of the morning. For 25 minutes, he serenaded us with his smooth, jingle-inspired jams. We heard one about how much he loved our city, one wishing our beautiful bus driver a good day, and one about his McDonald’s lunch order, which consisted of a double cheeseburger, large fries, and some almost-forgotten chicken nuggets. I felt lucky and joyful. And hungry.
When he finally stepped off, he urged us all to look for his album. Coming soon. Tony.