A cautionary tale

A bus. Somewhere in the suburbs.
An elderly man gets on.

He’s older than your average old man, but more sprightly too. The bus is half full. Normally this means that every seat is taken by one person, but there are a few free seats this time. Which makes it more surprising when he sits down next to a teenage boy. The teenager is unimpressed by the old man’s decision and displays his best nonchalant, aloof and cool face. It’s pretty good, too.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” No answer, but the old man goes on.
“I’ve seen my share of nice days – not more or less, mind you, just my fair share. I’m entitled to that aren’t I?”
The teenager could no longer pretend he was unaware of the old man’s existence.
“Who could deny that? Not you, that’s for sure.” The old man chuckled to himself, and he pulled a hamburger out of his jacket pocket. He took a bite into it, and used both hands to offer it to his fellow passenger. The teenager shook his head and politely smiled ‘no’. The old man leant into the burger, inhaled deeply and returned it to his pocket.
“Crikey, that’s a good burger! Better save it for later.”

The poor commuters on the bus involuntarily began salivating, such was the delightful burger scent that wafted through the bus. A middle aged woman sitting at the front of the bus, but facing the back and our protagonists (yes, plural), furrowed her eyebrows.
“Can’t you read the signs? No eating on the bus,” she called out.
The old man reached into his pocket, withdrew the burger, took a long, longing, loving bite and hurled the rest of the burger at the woman. It glanced off her shoulder and landed on the dash in front of the bus driver, amazingly still in one piece (this was probably due to sticky melted cheese). The driver, incensed, pounded his fist on the burger and flattened it.
Amazingly, the bus maintained its steady course along the road. The driver, obviously having second thoughts, picked up the burger, sniffed pensively at it and took a bite. He knew immediately that it was the right decision, and finished the burger in three bites.
Meanwhile, the woman was so outraged that she got off at the next stop, in between brushing her shoulder clean and muttering in the direction of the old man.

“Where you headed, sonny?” The old man was sitting down again. After almost deciding to get the hell out of there, the teenager somehow thought better of it and answered. For better or worse, his guard was now partly down.
“Just heading to work, actually.”
“Oh, gee, that’s a pity, lovely day like this.”
“I know. But you know what, I’m enjoying the ride, I’m enjoying the day so far, and I’ll try to enjoy work as well.”
“With an attitude like that, you’ll go far. Possibly all the way to the top.” The bus let on some more passengers, let off some others. “Where do you work, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I work for a coffee shop.”
“Ah, legal drugs. Nothing like them.”
“That’s right. Our customers are hooked, I tell you what.”
“Has it ever occurred to you the reason why some drugs are welcomed by the powers that be, and others are banished as though they were some kind of bane?”
“I suppose you gotta outlaw the dangerous ones,” said the teenager, without really thinking about the question.
“Hogwash! How many people do alcohol and cigarettes kill? And what about all the others that stay alive and cop the effects? Let me tell you, you make your own decisions about these things, sonny. You like to get high?”
“Umm, not really.” The teenager’s guard was not that far down.
The old man pulled out a massive joint, this time from his boots, and a box of matches. “Here, open the window, would you?”
“It is open.” The man thrust his arm out the window to check, inadvertently slapping the head of a man standing at the bus stop at which the bus was stopped.
“I see. Well, bottoms up.” He lit the joint, and it burned brightly as the old man inhaled deeply. A good 10 seconds later, he began coughing and spluttering, considerately over the aisle rather than the teenager.
“You want a hit?” The teenager was clearly deliberating over whether to take the proverbial red pill when the driver swerved, just missing a pothole. The joint flew out of the old man’s hands and landed squarely between the teenager’s lips. He could resist no more, so inhaled, tentatively at first. It was some fine, fine ganja. Carolina Bluegrass, if he wasn’t mistaken. Well into the moment now, the teenager inhaled deeply, for so long in fact that the joint burnt all the way up to his lips, causing him to cry out in pain, and exhaling smoke all throughout the bus.
“I said a hit, not the whole thing! Geez, whippersnappers these days. Look, you seem like a nice kid. I gotta get off here, but let me give you my number. I’m planning on starting a revolution this afternoon and you can get involved, if you like.”

The teenager was well into his ascent/descent into stonedom, and acquiesced more out of reflex than consideration. They swapped mobile numbers. The teenager gave the old man a fake name. “My name’s Wenslow.” Little did he know that the old man did too. “The name’s McGuire – Pat McGuire. I’ll be seeing you later. The old man removed the emergency red hammer from the bus window and was about to smash a hole in the window, but then thought better of it. He pocketed it instead, wisely realising that it could come in handy for the long journey he had ahead of him this afternoon.

Wenslow (we’ll call him this for now) decided to get off early and walk the rest of the way. The sun felt so gorgeous on his back. He pulled out his walkman and tuned in to the soundtrack to his life that morning. Everything seemed so…nice.