It was Friday night and the bus heading downtown would be packed. Capacity was one-hundred and four riders, and every one of us got a good look. I was in a line on the sidewalk in the cold wondering why this was taking so long. I was one step up when some idiot didn’t have their bus pass ready. I was two steps up as that sour-scented man fumbled for enough change. When I soldiered onto the crowded bus not quite consciously sliding my bus pass against the scanner is when I noticed her. A stunner of a woman before me. Her dress was this old-timey, 19th century Little House on the Prairie look, speckled with powdered greens and blues, complete with bonnet. My eyes traveled to her face, and my grimace must have been noticeable.
Disfigurement. One half of her old, sandpapered face was caved in. It was a long, drawn out moment that I could only wonder by what means.
But as I filed along to the back of the crowded bus, I noticed an unexpected feeling take hold. I found a smile sauntering across my lips.
“You see that?” I asked my roommate.
She looked up from her cell phone. “See what?”
“Nevermind.”
That costume was such a queer sight, and it had really affected me. Instead of the usual pity, the sympathy and injustice, I was grinning over that anachronistic flair and the curiosity of the whole encounter. That costume just screamed contentment. And self-confidence. And oddity.
I felt good. Something had happened. I still notice when it does.
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