The Bass Man (Temporary Title)

I was reading a book when I looked up. There in the window I saw the bass man. Everyday at the same time he stood on the curb in his oatmeal trench coat waiting for the bus to come and pick him up. The number eleven bus.
I imagine the coat was very warm, but in heat , or chill, or rain, like this day, he stood there for waiting. We hadn’t me, for he wouldn’t look back through the spotty window at me, but I believed us to have a connection, and a wonderful one at that.
Each day before four I would sit at my small writing table, writing or reading, and then watching out the window until he came strolling up. He would place his instrument beside him and look intently down the street until the bus pulled into his view. He never seemed disturbed by the jostlers by, by the pigeons that would land next to and occasionally on him hoping for a snack, or by the cars progressing quickly in front of him.
On this day, he seemed not much disturbed by the steady rain that had continuously fallen since morning forming puddles on the walk beneath his feet. I had not suspected he would be there, but at four he walked up, set the bass down beside him and held his large black umbrella not over himself but his prized possession. How very odd for a human to care more about wood and string than himself. How very refreshing.
I slipped a paper clip onto the pages of my open book, an Austen, to hold a spot, and rested my head on my arms as I gazed out the window. The rain dropped faster and heavier until the sprinkle was a slight downpour. I reached out a hand to follow the rain drops down the window pane and recoiled at the chill or the glass. I looked at the bass man standing in the rain with no umbrella to cover him and made a rash decision. I never make rash decisions. But I think the rain made me feel brave that day. So I pulled on boots over my slippers, grabbed a sweater and two umbrellas and went outside. The rain felt much heavier than it had looked, and the dirty puddles between cobblestones in the street soaked my pants above the ankles and my socks through. The man didn’t look over at me as I stood next to him, raised the second umbrella over his head, or even as I began to speak.
“I noticed you standing here, and well I felt bad that you were getting wet.”
His head was still turned away as if he didn’t care to respond.
“That is a beautiful instrument you have there. I wish I could play something like that. Or anything at all for that matter.”
Still he said nothing.
“My mum made me take piano as a girl, but it never set. It would have been lovely, I suppose. But you know children; lazy. I’m very sorry to be bothering you like this.”
He still didn’t respond. We stood there for several minutes wordless. Many shuffled quickly past us, some giving strange looks. It was understandable. There was a young woman holding two umbrellas, and an elderly man holding one over a bass. It must have looked understandably outlandish.
Luckily for the uncomfortable situation the bus turned off of Cherry and on Luxembourg at that moment. The bass man folded his umbrella and lifted the heavy instrument. The bus doors opened and he moved forward. His left leg struggled to hold the weight of the heavy instrument and he labored to lift it onto a step. Before he boarded he turned towards me and smiled.
“Thank you very much. And don’t give up on the piano. Music is a wonderful gift.”
He sat in the very back with his bass for his seat partner and rode away down the avenue. I imagined he was going to teach a class full of wonderful talented children. I imagined the furrows of his face scowl as he struggled to show a young boy in uniform how to do a run. He leaned behind him and explained the technique. Eventually he got frustrated and demonstrated on his own slightly damp bass. It was delightful. And to add, I felt the sudden need to find the box of beginner piano books my mum bought me in primary.
I folded my own two umbrellas and let the rain hit my face. It didn’t feel cold anymore. It was a pleasant feeling, almost one of freedom. I was glad that it was raining, and I had not felt any particularly glad feelings towards rain before this moment. I was the most glad, though, that I had the chance to stand next to the bass man for a few moments.
After a week of standing with bass man at the bus stop, I still new very little about him. But a little was more than nothing. As before, he didn’t speak a word to me until he boarded the number eleven. I learned his name was Richard Waldron and that he not only played the bass, but the violin and flute as well. He only once more mentioned the piano to me. He prodded, “It will be there when you need a friend that isn’t fickle soothe you. It will always sound the same.” He was not only a musician but a poet. I loved that.
I pulled out the old books, and the happy memories of taping letters onto the black and white keys danced into my head. Mother would sit and play melodies more beautiful than sunsets and I would listen, eyes closed lying on the floor. I was frustrated that I couldn’t play like her, with ease.
This time, I wouldn’t quit. I was determined to learn. I had no piano, but I would find one. Once determined, I was a force unstoppable by nearly everything.