Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Tony: En Plein Air

I sort of sensed that something was going to happen.  Each of them had made a distinct impression on me as they’d independently passed me on the way to the back of the bus: the rotund, rollicking mocha dude, the looming pale guy with the crazy track shoes, and the art school chick with the clear eyes and the kilt.  I could see from my bench that the art student had chosen a seat on the right in the last row but one; the two big guys were taking up the three rightmost seats of the very last row. 

Those are all power seats on my bus, and these three riders were occupying them with powerful individual panache.  The student sat primly in a pert cap; her hair was dark and glossy, and her skin was fair and clear.  She’d pulled out a notebook and her eyes flicked from it to the general environs and back in the manner of one making a drawing.  The party dude behind her was in soft denim over a white t-shirt stretched tight by his full belly and generous sub-chin; he sat with his elbows on his knees and stared at the ceiling.  The lummox next to him wore a t-shirt that read, in heavy generic type, “ROYALTY,” with formfitting tapered jeans that did him no favors and fabulous trackshoes in bright and glossy red, white and blue plastic. His expression was that of a sturdy hill that had recently been clearcut.  I returned to my book thinking that those three were oddly-matched.

I got wrapped up in something else for awhile and suddenly it was almost time for me to get off the bus.  I strolled back toward the rear door, since that would let me off closest to my crosswalk.  As I waited there for my stop, I noticed that the art student had taken up a new subject: the guy in the corner was posing for her, head cocked absurdly.  The guy with the shoes was splayed out, glossy bright shoes extended up the central bus aisle.  Earbuds bracketing his monolithic head like a couple of outsize enoki stuffed in his ears, he nodded sternly in time to something. 

The art student softly asked her model for his name.  “Tony!,” he delightedly told her.  His voice rang out in the otherwise quiet bus and I glanced over; our eyes met.  He apologized: “Sorry, so sorry, but this here’s a famous art teacher and I just have to have her do my picture - How’m I doin’, sweetheart?” His attention swerved again to the bit of crumpet doing the sketching, but one glance at her showed me who was in control of that situation.  Her dark eyes locked unwaveringly on her subject much as a cat might eye an obese hamster.  Her pad was pulled up near her face; I couldn’t see her work, but the gleam in her eye was both gentle and merciless. 

Tony was in his element - chin uplifted, profile proffered with the confidence of a fat black Errol Flynn, he reveled in the attention even as the huge dude next to him just kicked back to the jams in his head, iridescent patriotism on his feet and monarchic delusions on his chest. 

I deflected his apology with what was intended to be a low, gruff voice, but which came out weak and squeaky: “not at all.” The student’s laser gaze snapped to my eyes for a moment, and then returned to her sheet and her subject, her sugarfloss smile melting just a touch more warmly on her lips.  Tony was in thrall.  Trying to hold his ludicrous pose, he reiterated, “World famous art teacher.  Now, you don’t be puttin’ any bags under my eyes, righ’?  He shot me a complicit wink, an irrepressible grin forcing itself upon his austere expression.

“No, no,” the art student mouthed, shaking her head delicately.

“You should stick around and see how it comes out,” Tony suggested to me.  I was the only (attentive) witness to his assignation with the hot art student, and I think he wanted me to be able to confirm his story. 

“I’m off at the next stop.” My voice had reclaimed itself and I spoke quietly but deeply. 

“Take another stop!,” Tony cheerfully suggested.  The goon next to him, eyes closed, head bobbing, grinned.  I got off at the next stop anyway but I wish I hadn’t.  It’s killing me that I never saw the finished product - Tony in situ, en plein air.  I suppose this recollection will have to suffice me.