Babushko

In the morning, I wait for the bus at the Chargrill. Most mornings, a tiny old man is waiting there. Some days, his pants are about 3 inches too short, exposing his white tube socks. He carries a blue tote bag, stuffed to the gills. When it's cold, he ties a ratty, plaid silk scarf around his head like a little old Polish lady. I can't figure this guy out. He makes noises, somewhere between a grunt and mumbling under his breath. He seems to fall somewhere between a crazy person and a stroke victim. I usually can't make out what he's saying. He doesn't smile. He'll pick up the trash out in front of Chargrill.

When I arrive in the morning, I usually sit down on one of the benches. When Babushko realizes I'm there, he'll pick up his tote bag and walk over to where I am sitting. He stands about a foot away, grumbles and walks back to where he was, with his back to me. Is he saying hello? Is he damning me to the firey depths of hell? I just don't know. I have to admit, he made me a little nervous at first. When he "greets" me in the morning, I smile. I lose track of him in the morning when we get to RTP. I'm not sure where he goes.

He absolutely refuses to get on the bus before I do. No matter how many people are there, he makes sure the women get on the bus, then everyone else can board. This morning, I was able to make out "ladies first" as I was getting on the bus.

I really would like to know where he goes.