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.”