Mr. Tie-Dye and His Invisible Friend

He could have been anywhere from 60-80 years old; it was difficult to tell. The top of his head was bald, but scraggly gray hair trailed down the back of it to the nape of his neck. His beard and mustache were almost white, and neatly trimmed. The tanned skin on his arms was covered with paler spots, and his nails were very long. His tie-dyed shirt of lime green, brilliant blue, and sunset orange shades was reminiscent of the hippie era. In his hand he held a small transistor radio with the antenna extended and earbuds attached. Periodically he would sing tunelessly along with snatches of the music; the part I heard best was “think about youuuuu.” Sometimes he talked, leading me to initially assume he was holding a cell phone, but it most definitely was not. Was he talking to an invisible friend? Or conversing with the voices in his head? Occasionally, a bit of profanity could be heard, but mostly it was a mumble that could not be discerned by me in my seat across the aisle of the Greyhound bus. The young man sitting in the seat ahead of him glanced back in his direction from time to time, and even peered through the crack between the seats when Mr. Tie-dye got a little loud. When he got off the bus at Pasco and boarded a connecting bus to elsewhere, I breathed a sigh of relief. Yet I also felt a twinge of pity for his fellow-passengers on the next leg of his trip.