The sudden forward motion of the bus caused the man to swing into the seat next to me. "Good Morning!," I said with a smile. "Crazy driver this morning," he smiled back. We exchanged other stranger pleasantries, I told him how long I'd lived in the city and how I was heading to my accounting job. "I'm a rapper," he said. "Rapper? as in rap battles and rhymes and ...." trying to confirm that perhaps there wasn't a line of work called rapper that meant something else entirely. He was easily in his early sixties, big white bushy mustache - dressed like a billboard for retirement in polo shirt, pressed slacks and sneakers that were several decades out of fashion. "Exactly like that!," he said fumbling in his fanny pack for a card, which he then handed me. "Wunda Bred, 2014 Senior Caucasian Rapper of the Year", the card read. On the card he was covered in gold chains and wore a hysterically sequined golfer hat and was surrounded by dark sunglass wearing ten-year-olds in exaggerated gang poses. "Your grandkids?," I said motioning at the card. He nodded yes. "wow," I said rather incredulously, "How..." "How did it happen?," he said, finishing my sentence, "Those kids love rap. So much, that it was playing all the time, so I figured if you can't beat'em, join'em. I started writing poems, which became my first raps. Of course, being a caucasian rapper they are all about my first world problems. My biggest rap so far is "Stone Cold Latte" about a bad latte at the espresso bar at Whole Foods. Brings the house down everytime. My other big rap is "Kale Ain't No Superfood, Yo!" There's a web link my granddaughter set up on Soundcloud there on the card, you can go listen to my jams if you'd like." "I will absolutely do that," I said with an uncontrollable smile, "Well this is my stop. Nice to meet you, um..... Mr. Bred." "Call me Wunda," he said, shaking my hand vigorously, "Stay cool, Dude."