My weekly journey across town for comics involves twenty minutes or so on the bus each way, another ten to fifteen minutes waiting for the bus and, oh, two minutes actually in the comic shop. It’s pretty nice and I enjoy the whole thing quite a bit. It’s a lovely little routine that I keep to with an insane determination. What amuses me most is how, while my part of the whole outing is always the same, everything around it changes. Some Wednesdays, the bus is practically empty both ways. Some Wednesdays, the bus is packed both ways. Some Wednesdays, I see people I recognize from previous trips, while, some Wednesdays, I don’t.
Today, while waiting for the bus outside of my shop, my back to the ferocious winds that have plagued Windsor on this fine, sunny day, I smelled an odd smoke. It wasn’t cigarette smoke, but reminded me more of an old cigar shop. The smell grew stronger and, soon, a man ambled past me, pipe sticking out of his mouth, and looking very much like a character from “Charlatan Ball.” He was in his fifties, black, wore a large hat, a fur coat, dark glasses, was short, overweight, and had a face not quite Kirby-esque, but close. For some reason, he stood by the door to the shop and waited for the bus, but didn’t get on when it came. Maybe he wasn’t finished with his pipe. Maybe he enjoyed the sunshine despite the harsh winds.
Maybe he was just a fun-lovin’ guy like the comic he seemingly sprang from.
Ah, writing... fun.
