It was a wickedly cold morning when I walked a few steps from my Ravenswood apartment, and was fortunate that there was a 145 bus, idling at the nearby stop.
One of the perks of living where I did, near the Sears on Lawrence Avenue, was that I was a few steps from where the 145, began its route. Some drivers, on some days, would show mercy toward the chilled, or sopping-wet, customers of the Chicago Transit Authority, and open their doors ahead their scheduled departure time.
The driver saw me shivering outside and was magnanimous enough to let me in before his scheduled takeoff time, though it was technically against CTA policy.
I don’t remember what was ahead for me at work that day, but my job at the time rather tedious–making truck parts fliers for an ad agency–so it wasn’t that different than the day before.
As I sat down he pointed his index figure toward me and offered this sinister warning: “You can stay on this bus as long as you don’t tell anybody what you’re about to see or hear.”
Then “You got that?”
I nodded then put proceeded to unfold my copy of The Chicago Tribune.
With that, he pulled a hard plastic case from the floor to his lap. When he opened the case and started to assemble its components, I saw the gleam of the metallic shaft he had in his hand.
I screamed with every fiber of my being, “My God! He has…. a FLUTE!!!!”
Then he glanced over his shoulder and placed his piece near his lips and played “Take Five” and then “My Favorite Things.”
My winter morning commutes are rarely that appealing nowadays. Now they begin with scraping ice from the windows of an automobile, and many days digging out my driveway after being plowed in.
There’s never a walk through the brisk cold, with some chance encounters with neighbors, or strangers, or a bit of window-shopping. Those things all put a spring in my step, at least until I began the bone-dissolving work of staring at line-art renderings of spark plugs, oil filters, and mud flaps.
Though on that particular morning, the unexpected jazz performance set the tone for my entire day. It wasn’t just the music, it was the serendipity. I wish there were a way that I could plan serendipitous, external events. They would certainly involve more flutes and fewer cars.