The Balloon Man

I was taking the 15 to a job interview near downtown. He boarded the bus a stop or two after I did, heavyset, puffing, dragging his cart of supplies behind him. He looked like a hobo clown--pink and gold vest over a ruffled white shirt, a pink hat with brim. His cheeks had not seen a razor in a long while; his teeth were crooked and yellow. From the faint mushiness of his words, he may have been what we used to call "a little slow."
He rambled as he dug for bus fare in various pockets in his vest and pantaloons, sat, and began the first balloon. "I do this every day. I go downtown. I sell just enough to buy balloons for the next day. The rest I give away." Hiss. The first latex sausage inflated, the Balloon Man began twisting it into a shape. Squeak. Squeak-squeak.
"Do you have to do that?"
Two rows behind me. Black and gold Hawaiian shirt, a coffee-with-cream fedora, maybe fifty-five. He'd been reading a paperback when the squeaking started. He stared at the Balloon Man.
"I'm just making a sword for the kid here," the Balloon Man breezed. "No one else makes a sword like this. My own design. Everybody makes their own sword; no one else makes one like this." Squeeeaak.
"OK," the man in the Hawaiian shirt said, "But please, no more." He waved one hand, palm down. Universal for knock it off. "That sound, it's like fingernails on a chalkboard." There were soft signs of agreement from other passengers. One or two laughed uncomfortably.
"I do this every day," the Balloon Man said. "I do a balloon for everyone on this bus." He handed the finished sword to the boy across from him, who mumbled thanks. "Every bus I ride, I make balloons for everyone."
"Oh, Lord." Mr. Hawaiian Shirt covered his face with one hand. The boy thanked the Balloon Man. He and his mother moved to the seat across from me. The hobo clown's hands flew expertly while he talked over the squeals of tortured rubber.
"Usually I take the ten o'clock bus, but today I'm late so I'm on this one. I do this all day, every day." Squeak. "A lot of guys do it for money, you know, a dollar a balloon, two dollars. I just do it for tips, basically. I make just enough to buy balloons for the next day. The rest I give away." The balloon was finished, its shape almost recognizable. The Balloon Man handed it to a young woman seated across the aisle. "A flower for the young lady," the Balloon Man chuckled. She looked at it dubiously before taking it.
"Oh, thank you," she said. Her boyfriend's arm crept a little closer around her shoulder.
"I go through about a hundred dollars' worth of balloons every day." Hiss. "I make just enough to buy balloons for the next day." Squeak.
"Can't you wait?"
There was an edge in the voice now, his patience strained. I glanced back, smiled, shrugged--What can you do? He only looked at me.
"You ever have one pop while you're doing that?" the boyfriend said.
"Sometimes. You get a run of bad balloons, weak rubber." His hands flew. "Never more than three on a bus, though. My rule is, I ever pop three on a bus, I stop."
The bus driver glared in the overhead mirror. "Better not pop one," she said.
The Balloon Man handed the boyfriend a sword. "I never pop more than three on a bus," he said. "That's my rule."
The man in the Hawaiian shirt made an irritated barking sound and shifted in his seat.
"It scares the grown-ups more when they pop. I had this woman on a bus once, I was making water wings on her arms, you know, and one of them popped and she started screaming. 'You can't do that,' really carrying on, screaming 'You oughtta be thrown off the bus!' And she did, she got me almost thrown off. She should have been thrown off the bus, the way she was screaming." Squeak.
The man in the Hawaiian shirt shifted again, opened his mouth to speak.
I pulled the stop cord. The bus lurched toward the curb. I headed for the exit.