Special guest blogger Robert Earl Hardy shares his bus story.
Austin’s free shuttle, the Armadillo--the ‘Dillo--is an easy way to get around town. Marsha and I are waiting at the stop on Lake Austin Boulevard to take the red line down to Congress. It’s a hot, sunny mid-morning; walking down the street and up to the bus shelter comes a bald-headed guy, maybe 50, maybe 60, possibly homeless based on his street-weary clothes. He joins us, pleasantly excuses himself in a long Texas drawl, and asks me what the date is. I tell him it’s March 17th, St. Patrick’s Day. He’s very happy to hear this, telling us that he has a big green dragon tattooed on his back, that that’s his green. His name is Tim.
"I just got out of jail," he tells us. "I’m a jailbird and a drunk," he says sheepishly, "and a pothead." He asks if I’d like to buy the two-week bus pass they gave him when he got out of jail, which he pulls from his wallet. He sees my Antone’s ("home of the blues") t-shirt and perks up, putting his wallet away, telling me that he’s a musician, a guitar player, and that he’s at this very moment going downtown to try to get his guitar back from the cops. It’s a beautiful old Guild he says, and they’d better not do anything to it. It has his wife’s and his kids’ names carved in the top he says, and they’d better not let any harm come to it.
We get on the bus. He talks about the hard times, and I say that we need a new president to start turning things around. The bus driver suddenly turns around; "Excuse me for interrupting," she says, "but ‘Amen!’" Tim says "You got a match? We’ll do a J"; then he grins--"Just kidding." Marsha looks like Emmylou Harris, he drawls, "but purtier." When we get off at our stop I wish him luck getting his guitar back; he thanks me and says "bye, Emmy,’ to Marsha, grinning.
On the sidewalk I immediately curse myself for not having had the presence of mind to give him a little something, but Marsha says that the moment seemed to pass naturally, and I realize that’s true.
Austin’s free shuttle, the Armadillo--the ‘Dillo--is an easy way to get around town. Marsha and I are waiting at the stop on Lake Austin Boulevard to take the red line down to Congress. It’s a hot, sunny mid-morning; walking down the street and up to the bus shelter comes a bald-headed guy, maybe 50, maybe 60, possibly homeless based on his street-weary clothes. He joins us, pleasantly excuses himself in a long Texas drawl, and asks me what the date is. I tell him it’s March 17th, St. Patrick’s Day. He’s very happy to hear this, telling us that he has a big green dragon tattooed on his back, that that’s his green. His name is Tim.
"I just got out of jail," he tells us. "I’m a jailbird and a drunk," he says sheepishly, "and a pothead." He asks if I’d like to buy the two-week bus pass they gave him when he got out of jail, which he pulls from his wallet. He sees my Antone’s ("home of the blues") t-shirt and perks up, putting his wallet away, telling me that he’s a musician, a guitar player, and that he’s at this very moment going downtown to try to get his guitar back from the cops. It’s a beautiful old Guild he says, and they’d better not do anything to it. It has his wife’s and his kids’ names carved in the top he says, and they’d better not let any harm come to it.
We get on the bus. He talks about the hard times, and I say that we need a new president to start turning things around. The bus driver suddenly turns around; "Excuse me for interrupting," she says, "but ‘Amen!’" Tim says "You got a match? We’ll do a J"; then he grins--"Just kidding." Marsha looks like Emmylou Harris, he drawls, "but purtier." When we get off at our stop I wish him luck getting his guitar back; he thanks me and says "bye, Emmy,’ to Marsha, grinning.
On the sidewalk I immediately curse myself for not having had the presence of mind to give him a little something, but Marsha says that the moment seemed to pass naturally, and I realize that’s true.
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