Surrounded by another crowd of peculiar strangers and the fulfilling lights of the train car, I sat by myself as passengers entered and exited between each and every stop, all while I read a book to quickly kill time. The predominance of my counters on public transit are usually met with some sort of substance, a particular ambience in the air that captures a moment like your favorite scene in a film. And when I met the Grand Ol' Daddy, I knew that it would another one of those cases.
Surpassing a grand elderly age, he stepped onto the train car with a suitcase and an arched back that made it nearly impossible to walk straight without complication. A neighboring black man saw Grand looking for an open seat, in which where the black man gave up his seating for the elder individual. All Grand Ol' Daddy did was smile and look down, as if he was nervous around the company of complete strangers. But who would conduct some harm onto him, though? The man could barely walk!
When I had finished perusing another chapter, Grand got up and departed the train car, all without uttering any words or imperative eye contacts. He never went to the airport; why did he carry a suitcase?
I named him Grand Ol' Daddy because he reminds me of someone from my past.
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