Boss Man

I’ve often seen him standing there at the bus stop. No, not exactly at the bus stop, but right across the street. He waits, watching for the bus to creep up the hill, then he’ll cross to my side of the street, joining the group gathered. Maybe he’s five feet tall, or maybe he appears that small because he’s hunched over, trusting his rickety cane to support the brunt of his weight. His shoulders are wide; he’s a stout little fellow. He reminds me of a block, a child’s tiny ABC building block.Deep wrinkles are etched into his leathery skin, set off by eyes that continuously smile.

Today was the first day I saw him actually board the bus. Ever so slowly he mounted the steps, then at the landing he paused, and in a tiny voice that seemed to be squeezed out of him, came the words, “Hello, boss man,” punctuated by a thick Chinese accent.

The MUNI driver smiled at his friend, then in a deep, velvety, gravelly voice so typical in older African American men, he slowly replied, “Hello, boss man.” The elderly passenger took the first seat directly behind the driver. He seemed to be mumbling incoherently to himself throughout the ride. As the driver announced stops the elderly passenger would occasionally repeat them, adding commentary of his own. The rough, chocolaty voice of the driver announced, “Taylor, Taylor, Taylor. Next stop, Taylor Street.” Immediately a tiny voice eeked, “Taylor, Taylor, Taylor. You tell them, boss man.”

He wasn’t on the bus for that long, maybe 5 or 6 stops. As he exited ever so slowly, descending the steps of the MUNI bus, he turned around and squeaked, “See you tomorrow, boss man.”