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.”

 

November 17, 2015