That Poor Man
One of my newest bus drivers, a man probably about 35 with sharp cheekbones and a smooth, shaved head, gave me his phone number. At my stop, on the way out, he shyly handed me a bus schedule. I said, “What’s this for?” and he said, “Just have a look,” and he drove off in a hurry. I turned the schedule over and over in my hands before spotting his phone number and name on the back, wondering why the hell he would do such a thing, before placing it into the book I was reading as a marker.
A few days later, while I was reading on my lunch break at work, a friend of mine saw the schedule and the phone number on it and laughed.
“Is that another bus driver’s phone number?” he asked, knowing my “history” with bus drivers was strangely reoccurring.
“Yeah,” I said absently, enthralled in my book.
“And instead of calling him or just throwing it out like a normal person, you’re using it as a bookmark?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“That poor man.”