The bus was late. We waited. It was pouring rain and me and five people on our commutes back from work, or school, or whatever huddled together. It was windy too and that made the cover of the bus stop almost completely inadequate. There was no thunder or lightning at least. It was not quite winter anymore, but not quite spring yet. We were in that stage in the changing of the seasons that was comprised of the worst features of both. Residual street salt ate away at our boots as we hid from a heavy rain of spring, still cold in the slushy greyness of the dying winter. We continued to wait for the bus. It was a feeble ‘we.’ We were all in the same situation, it was true. Waiting at the same bus stop for the same late bus. Nothing had changed except the weather, but nobody spoke about it, so nobody spoke at all.
High above the patter of rain droplets on the concrete was a whistle, a slow tune that I knew but couldn’t name, happy without insolence. With no umbrella, with no rain jacket, and in no rush at all, a man walked by the bus stop, his suit completely soaked through. He didn’t look at us as he passed. Under the bus stop we exchanged a few glances with each other to acknowledge it was a weird thing to see, but still nobody spoke. He passed us again from the other direction, walking backwards this time. He stopped mid-stride in front of the bus stop and whipped his head towards us with a big smile.
“Nice weather we’re having,” he said, raising and lowering his eyebrows rapidly, still standing in the downpour, just beyond the bus stop. Nobody laughed, but there was a half-hearted murmur in acknowledgement that a joke had been made. We all knew this scene, at least I did. It had been exaggerated and replicated endlessly but to great effect in novels and films, and to a lesser extent, in our real lives. The one free man, who had kept his childlike sense of wonder for all creation alive, who’s very existence liberates if only for a moment the poor huddled masses, weighed down by earthly concerns. The familiarity I had with this banal scene made me angry, but if not serious he did look sincere. I thought he was presumptuous to try this on us, to assume that we needed saving even in a small way and that he was the one to do it. So I bit.
“Oh gee. What do you mean?” I said sarcastically, gesturing broadly at the downpour. “Fuck off. Its raining out,”
“How much do you want to bet?” He said, still smiling but his tone was quite serious. This was new. The one free man doesn’t normally put money on it. I hesitated for a moment, then my mind cleared. He was betting against the weather, something we could all see and feel, against the physical evidence of our own senses, and his. I didn’t think he believed what he was saying, not for a moment, but I admit I was curious and now I was committed, so I felt I had to play it out to the end.
“Okay fine. Fifty dollars?” I said impatiently, but continuing the exchange.
“Double it.” He said, extending his hand to be shaken. I shook it before thinking about anything else. He stood there a moment, and I glanced at the five people standing behind me. I didn’t know what would happen next. He stepped back a bit from the bus stop and looked up into the heavy rainfall with his eyes open. He raised his arms out slightly from his side with his palms turned skywards as if feeling for a drizzle. He raised them out further until he was in the pose of… a crucifix. I couldn’t believe it. I looked around to see if anyone else was as disgusted as I was with such an appalling cliche. They looked from him to me, but no one spoke. I rolled my eyes savagely. He lowered his arms and looked at me again. As he took a step forward he reached his hand into his pocket. When he removed it he took my hand in his and pressed a wet hundred dollar bill into it. I stared at the money as he walked off, just as he had come, whistling the same tune. There was a short silence, and then everyone huddled in the bus stop behind me burst into laughter, and began to talk.
“Did you see his suit? It was nice, if a bit wet. Maybe he just got fired?” Said a woman trying to explain what she had just seen.
“What was he thinking?” A man said, shaking his head, confused but smiling.
“I don’t know that he was thinking,” she replied, and everyone laughed harder. I fought it, but a small ripple of joy passed through me. I tried to keep fighting it, but I felt that I was smiling. The five people behind me kept laughing and talking, and I gave in a bit.
“I think he got you with that one,” the woman behind me said, seeing that I was chuckling reluctantly. “Oldest trick in the book,” more laughter. “He must do it for sport.”
It was true, he had lost the bet but won something far greater. Cliches are cliches for a reason I conceded, and was redeemed against my own will. I shook my head and gave a full laugh. The bus never came.
Matthew Cameron 
The bus was late. We waited. It was pouring rain and me and five people on our commutes back from work, or school, or whatever huddled together. It was windy too and that made the cover of the bus stop almost completely inadequate. There was no thunder or lightning at least. It was not quite winter anymore, but not quite spring yet. We were in that stage in the changing of the seasons that was comprised of the worst features of both. Residual street salt ate away at our boots as we hid from a heavy rain of spring, still cold in the slushy greyness of the dying winter. We continued to wait for the bus. It was a feeble ‘we.’ We were all in the same situation, it was true. Waiting at the same bus stop for the same late bus. Nothing had changed except the weather, but nobody spoke about it, so nobody spoke at all.
High above the patter of rain droplets on the concrete was a whistle, a slow tune that I knew but couldn’t name, happy without insolence. With no umbrella, with no rain jacket, and in no rush at all, a man walked by the bus stop, his suit completely soaked through. He didn’t look at us as he passed. Under the bus stop we exchanged a few glances with each other to acknowledge it was a weird thing to see, but still nobody spoke. He passed us again from the other direction, walking backwards this time. He stopped mid-stride in front of the bus stop and whipped his head towards us with a big smile.
“Nice weather we’re having,” he said, raising and lowering his eyebrows rapidly, still standing in the downpour, just beyond the bus stop. Nobody laughed, but there was a half-hearted murmur in acknowledgement that a joke had been made. We all knew this scene, at least I did. It had been exaggerated and replicated endlessly but to great effect in novels and films, and to a lesser extent, in our real lives. The one free man, who had kept his childlike sense of wonder for all creation alive, who’s very existence liberates if only for a moment the poor huddled masses, weighed down by earthly concerns. The familiarity I had with this banal scene made me angry, but if not serious he did look sincere. I thought he was presumptuous to try this on us, to assume that we needed saving even in a small way and that he was the one to do it. So I bit.
“Oh gee. What do you mean?” I said sarcastically, gesturing broadly at the downpour. “Fuck off. Its raining out,”
“How much do you want to bet?” He said, still smiling but his tone was quite serious. This was new. The one free man doesn’t normally put money on it. I hesitated for a moment, then my mind cleared. He was betting against the weather, something we could all see and feel, against the physical evidence of our own senses, and his. I didn’t think he believed what he was saying, not for a moment, but I admit I was curious and now I was committed, so I felt I had to play it out to the end.
“Okay fine. Fifty dollars?” I said impatiently, but continuing the exchange.
“Double it.” He said, extending his hand to be shaken. I shook it before thinking about anything else. He stood there a moment, and I glanced at the five people standing behind me. I didn’t know what would happen next. He stepped back a bit from the bus stop and looked up into the heavy rainfall with his eyes open. He raised his arms out slightly from his side with his palms turned skywards as if feeling for a drizzle. He raised them out further until he was in the pose of… a crucifix. I couldn’t believe it. I looked around to see if anyone else was as disgusted as I was with such an appalling cliche. They looked from him to me, but no one spoke. I rolled my eyes savagely. He lowered his arms and looked at me again. As he took a step forward he reached his hand into his pocket. When he removed it he took my hand in his and pressed a wet hundred dollar bill into it. I stared at the money as he walked off, just as he had come, whistling the same tune. There was a short silence, and then everyone huddled in the bus stop behind me burst into laughter, and began to talk.
“Did you see his suit? It was nice, if a bit wet. Maybe he just got fired?” Said a woman trying to explain what she had just seen.
“What was he thinking?” A man said, shaking his head, confused but smiling.
“I don’t know that he was thinking,” she replied, and everyone laughed harder. I fought it, but a small ripple of joy passed through me. I tried to keep fighting it, but I felt that I was smiling. The five people behind me kept laughing and talking, and I gave in a bit.
“I think he got you with that one,” the woman behind me said, seeing that I was chuckling reluctantly. “Oldest trick in the book,” more laughter. “He must do it for sport.”
It was true, he had lost the bet but won something far greater. Cliches are cliches for a reason I conceded, and was redeemed against my own will. I shook my head and gave a full laugh. The bus never came.
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