every morning i bus to work. and every morning i am joined at the busstop by a little bridge troll. he is a short little man, prolly in his 50s or 60s. his face is darkened and very wrinkly. his little beady eyes barely peak through all the wrinkles. he waves with his stubby little fingers at any service truck and bus that passes by.
his outfits vary from day to day. but they tend to consist of brightly covered crew neck sweatshirts, which he haphazardly tucks into a pair of plaid pants and his boxers. that sweatshirt is not going anywhere. he pulls the front of his undershirt up and chews it like a stick of gum.
since there is no bridge for the little troll to block, he stands in the middle of a turn lane as we wait for the bus. cars drive around him and then slowly drive by, glaring into their rear view mirrors. he'll just stand there right on the arrow painted on the asphalt. absolutly no care in the world. sometimes i feel obligated to say something, but i figure you can't keep a bridge troll from doing what comes so naturally. blocking roads.
sometimes the little bridge troll likes to play games with the cars. he always has a drink with him, sometimes in a bottle, but on this occasion it was in a dixie cup. he took the empty dixie cup and walked out to the middle of the road and set the cup down. he retreated and would watch as cars zoom over the cup. a gust blows down the cup, so the troll props it back up, hoping to end the cups life by means of car tire steamrolling.
on the bus, the bridge troll sits down but then reaches up to use the hand straps made for standing passengers. i get off at my stop, left to wonder where the bridge troll gets off, and what bridge he patrols.