Since moving to south Florida Juan and I have been sharing one car, one motorcyle and a bicycle. Let me rephrase that. Since I don’t know how to drive a motorcycle and Juan took the bicycle to work to get around from one end of the yachtyard to another we just share the car. Actually, since tropical rainstorms occur nearly every afternoon he usually takes the car as well. I don’t mind since most days I work at home. Riding the bus, which picks me up right across the street from our building, is convenient, cheap and since meeting some really intriguing people, both passengers and drivers, it’s become a quite appealing mode of transportation.
Today, for example, a mile after boarding the route 11 city bus and taking my seat, James paid his buck and a half and took his seat in the front row designated for disabled and seniors. “Howya doin’,” asked the amiable black man carrying two plastic shopping bags, one of which had a wooden backscratcher sticking out of it.
“I have that same backscratcher at home,” I said.
James replied, “There’s nothin’ beatin’ it, ‘cept maybe a warm hand with strong nails.”
“That’s what my husband says too. I give him a backscratch every day,” I laughed with a hint of complaint.
“You spoil him, is what yer sayin’,” said James who described how his grandma used to spoil him with baked treats when he was little. He’d wait for the milk truck that made the delivery to his childhood home in Georgia. “Nuttin’ bettah than an ice cold glass of milk with those treats right outta the oven. Yep, nothin’ bettah,” said James wistfully. “I still remember how special she made me feel bakin’ those special sweet cakes of hers. Won’t never forget it.” His face held the same dreamy memory when I got off the bus.
I think I’ll give Juan a backscratch when he gets home today from a hard day at work. Maybe another at bedtime until he falls asleep. He’s already spoiled. No sense stopping now.