The Bones of Magic Hour on the Bus to DesPlaines.

I’m waiting for the bus at magic-hour — you know, that time of evening where the sun’s light gives a unique glow and everything just looks, well, better — and decide to shoot a photo of a trash bin someone has turned upside down and the rusty chains that had been there to keep it in place.

He snickers from around the corner and mumbles to himself, shaking his head. I assume he thinks I’m obnoxious with my smartphone and my magic-hour, no-filter, geo-tagged, Tweeted trash pic.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks the only other person to get on the bus with us when it finally arrives. “I’ve seen you but I don’t know who you are,” replies the woman sitting sideways behind the driver but in front of him.

“I’m a world-famous furniture maker,” he says; trying hard not to slur his words. It’s clear she is uncomfortable (to me at least, and I’m behind him near the back of the bus.) He notices this but slower and then tries to make amends conversationally, despite her desire not to have more conversation.

“I bet we are the same age,” he says; his way of asserting that — even though he’s white and she’s black, even though he’s probably only 120 pounds soaking wet in his grey hoodie and blue jean jacket and she’s taller and thicker, even though she seems to have all of her teeth and he clearly does not, even though she’s probably sober and he is absolutely not — they have something in common. They are alike.

“No, I don’t think so,” she says.

“Why, you don’t think I’m that young?” He sounds almost offended.

She dodges, “I didn’t think you were as old as me.”

“Well now, I’m 57 and I’m betting you’re about 47.”

“Close enough,” she says.

“What’s your name?” He presses.

“CiCi,” she replies.

“That’s a beautiful name.”

“Thank you.”

“I know a lot of gals named CiCi. I’m a good guy, really. I may be a little drunk, but I’m a good guy. People don’t believe me but I really am the world’s BEST furniture maker. Have you heard of me? I will be on Twitter and people will be like ‘I know you, you got that website!’ and I’ll be like on Twitter and saying ‘That’s me!’ They’ll be telling me — I’ll be on Twitter and they’ll be telling me ‘Mack, you are the best, most creative furniture maker I have ever met.’ They tell me that on Twitter when they go on my website.”

“I guess that means they have a lot of respect for what you do,” she says.

She’s trying hard to be patient with him. He has her as a captive audience. I’m the only other rider and I’m directly behind him, so his focus is laser tight on her. Just about the time he starts to tell her more, she pulls the cord to get off. We haven’t been away from the station very long. It isn’t clear if this is actually her stop or if she decided to take her chances with the next bus on that route. Either way, his captive audience has adjourned.

The sun is deeper into the horizon now. The glow of magic-hour is over, but I still have my sunglasses on. Sunglasses are level-one shielding on public transit. They do more than block the brightness of the setting sun, they can get you out of a lot of unwanted conversations. Level-two are headphones. Level-three is something to look at, a book or a phone.

I watch him squirm in front of me through my sunglasses. He knows I’m the only one left to talk to besides the driver, but I’m right exactly behind him. There is no casual way to engage a person on a bus in conversation if they are right behind you. You can’t just happen to meet eyes while looking at something else. He squirms in his seat looking this way and that then quickly over his shoulder to see if I’m looking; if I’m open to conversation.

He turns in his seat and slides all the way over to the bus wall so it is easier to face the rear of the bus over the back of his seat.

He looks at me and nods. Then looks away, pretending to be causual. He has been in motion in some manner since we got on the bus through various twitches, jerks, and nods.

Suddenly he looks solidly at me and waves, full-handed — the way my five year old might — with a big, goofy, toothless grin.

“I may not have all my teeth and I may be a little drunk, but I’m a good guy,” he says, and waits cautiously on my reply.

Up to then I had been stone faced behind my sunglasses. I barely nodded when he first turned around. Something in me decided it was time to smile, so I put on a big, goofy grin to match his and leaned forward in my seat, putting my phone in my pocket.

“Even good guys get a little drunk sometimes,” I say. That makes him smile again.

“I knew you was nice, just like I knew she was nice. You know why I like getting out of the city and out this way? People are nice. Do you know what I do?”

“You’re a furniture maker,” I answer.

“How’d you know that?!” He seemed genuinely shocked as though it was impossible that I was listening to his earlier conversation.

“I heard you telling CiCi.”

“She was nice,” he says, as if she were a lover who passed away.

“You remind me of my brother,” I say, and in a certain light it was true.

“Why, does he have a big nose too?”

I show him my distinguished profile. “About as big as mine.”

“It’s a good thing people like us are nice and still keep in contact with our brothers. Do you work in the city?”

“Off and on,” I say, uncomfortable to share too many specifics. “I’m trying to teach these days.”

“That’s what my brother is trying to do, he’s trying to teach at the Community College. He’s 61. That’s who I’m going to see. He lives in DesPlaines. He builds websites and stuff.”

“That would make him four years older than you, that right?”

Again, he seems awestruck I have this information.

“How did you know that?!”

“You told CiCi you were 57 and he’s 61, so…”

“See, I knew you was a nice guy! My name’s Mack but people call me Bones. My other brother, the older one, he works at the Pentagon. Every year on my birthday he sends me $600. My other brother and I, we don’t know how much he makes every year, but he’s gotta be doing ok to send that kind of money. Did I tell you I have a website?”

My stop is coming up but I’m genuinely curious. I stand up and move to the front. As I pass, he extends his hand. I shake his hand and look him plainly in the eye over my sunglasses.

“Nice to have met you, Bones,” I say as I turn to walk away.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Doug.”

“Nice to meet you, Doug. Always great to meet nice people. Did I tell you I got a website?”

“You mentioned it to CiCi but I didn’t catch the address.”

I’ve pulled the chain and I’m now poised to exit the front of the bus.

“Yeah, send me an email — go to (website redacted)— I’m the world’s best furniture designer, I really am.”

“So long, Mark. So long, Bones.”

So, here I am, having just randomly met this guy on a bus, and I had to go check out his site. It really is there and he really is on Twitter.

I don’t know if he is the best furniture maker in the world, but there is something decidedly awesome about this image of one of his works from his site:

This is why I love public transportation. If you keep an open mind, in certain times — at magic hour — you never know who you might meet.

May the internet and public transit be good to you all…