Artisan Score

He read aloud from an autographed copy of 'Chicken Soup for the Soul’. Everyone on the Q57 bus couldn’t help but hear his wild guttural drawl. All the way from Crescent Street to Ditmars Road he roared on. Now and then he would pause to drink deep from his thermos of hot cider. He said it kept him warm in the cold times. He said he liked it smooth, crisp – ‘the sweet nectar sip’ is what he called it. Wiping the juice from his unkempt goatee and onto his dirty rugby-striped sleeve, he showed the riders of the bus his battle scared neck and waved his pinky finger at those who he deemed ‘the Un-naturals’ His thorough description of Mandrake Root Stew and his ghastly inappropriate hand gestures left little up to the imagination. It all made me reflect on my own choices as a man. And as I sat in the back of the bus greedily eating my lamb gyro slathered in tzatziki, I couldn’t help but admire his genius and otherworldly quality. When all was said and done, the whole scene left me contemplating the end of time and begging for an encore.