The Man in the Gray Fedora

The man in the gray fedora climbs the steps of the bus carefully, one white knuckled hand gripping the handrail, the other holding his walking stick. He deposits a handful of coins into the machine and then navigates to a seat directly across from me, flares his ankle length yellow slicker with an enthusiastic shake and sends a spray of rainwater in every direction. Across the aisle, he meets my eyes and gives me a wicked, deliberate wink. I don't intend to smile back but it's a reflex and I've done it without thinking. He adjusts the fedora, tucks his beard inside the collar of his slicker and laughs outloud. The woman next to him lowers her eyes and slides discreetly a little away from him. I'm sure she's thinking what I am - he looks harmless enough but these are strange times and you have to be careful - Lord only knows what might be hidden beneath the drover style raincoat or behind those innocently twinkling brown eyes.

By the time we cross the line into Cambridge, the rain has turned to snow and for Christmas Eve, there's barely any traffic. It's still light when we reach Harvard Square, not exactly deserted but looking a lot like an early Sunday morning. A handful of last minute shoppers are still leaving the Coop and the pretzel man is still hawking his wares by the entrance to the subway. A snow covered quartet of street musicians is caroling “O Come All Ye Faithful” on the corner and you can hear church bells from the Harvard Yard. A lone Salvation Army Santa stands next to the newspaper stand, looking more than ready to call it a day. The banks of the river are pristine with fresh, undisturbed snow and on Cambridge Common, the nativity scene glows in a soft light. There are even live reindeer peacefully grazing and the whole scene has a postcard feel to it. It's what my daddy would call sleigh ride weather.

The bus skids and sways into its designated area and the driver expertly shifts gears and comes to a stop. The passengers are already out of their seats and in line to depart as he pulls a lever and with a gentle whoosh, the doors open.

“Watch your step, please,” he calls out as they pass, “Use the handrails and watch your step, please!”

“Merry Christmas!” some call back as they make their way out and he nods and smiles.

It's then I notice that the man in the gray fedora is not only not in line but also not in his seat nor, for that matter, anywhere on the bus. It's bewildering because we had been only a few feet apart and he couldn't possibly have gotten off without my seeing yet the fact is, he isn't here. I collect my umbrella and packages, rewind my scarf around my neck, pull my gloves back on,

and slowly leave the bus. It's almost full dark by now and still snowing and there's no sign of a man in a yellow slicker and gray fedora. I stop at the newstand long enough to buy an evening paper and a cup of hot chocolate then cross the street to the Common to catch the Pleasant Street bus which will take me very nearly to my grandmother's doorstep. According to the clock atop the subway entrance, I'm already fashionably late so I shrug off the mystery of the man in the gray fedora and concentrate on avoiding the icy patches of sidewalk in front of me.

The Common is ablaze with colored Christmas lights, strung through the fence, twined on the street lamps and hung on every tree and shrub. I can hear the chorus of “Unto Us A Child Is Born” coming from the old church and someone is kindly feeding the reindeer, someone in a yellow rain slicker and a gray fedora. Imagination, I tell myself instantly, I'll close my eyes and when I open them it'll be just some overworked and good hearted volunteer from the Humane Society. But when I open my eyes, all I see are the reindeer, milling around the nativity scene in two's and three's, pawing at the snow and looking a little like magical creatures from a Christmas story.

Maybe they were.