Alphabet Man

As I stood on the shuttle bus that would shunt us from the da Vinci airport terminal to a plane bound for Bologna, the man standing next to me gave me the impression that he might have been a featherweight boxer when he was young. It wasn’t his face, which showed no signs of the abuse a boxer would have endured, but a lanky grace that seemed to be natural but hard-won. The sunlight was glowing on his facial hair, making the tips of the stubble seem as if they were wired with tiny points of light.

His ears were especially remarkable. The interiors, which should have concaved within the outer curling rims, actually protruded forward like pillows of taut flesh. He had a sour expression that made his thicker-than-normal lips seem perpetually pursed in disapproval and his eyes were squinty with crow’s feet fanning out from the edges. His expression reminded me of Clint Eastwood's during his “Dirty Harry” days when he’d peer at his intended targets just before he blew them away, that famous scowl growing more petulant as the minutes ticked by.

The man on the shuttle was a walking dictionary—on his right hand between his thumb and forefinger, the word BLOW was tattooed, and on his left BASE, both in Baskerville, all caps. His steely blue baseball cap, which was pulled down tight around his shaved skull, read POLO just above the adjustable leather strap that held the cap tight on his head. On a band that ran along the edge of the knee-height pocket of his army-green cargo pants, “Think Pink” was embroidered, and his navy blue jacket that looked as if it were made of a lightweight parachute fabric had Stone Gap embroidered in a white circle sewn to his chest just above his heart.

The jacket, which fitted him snugly, was clean but aged as if he’d snapped it from a rack at a thrift shop. He received several calls as we stood there waiting for the other passengers to file onto the people mover at a snail’s pace. Each time the fuchsia cell phone rang, his expression went from sour to bitter. He’d flip it open, impatiently speak in Italian, snap it closed and slip it back into his pocket, shaking his head like whomever had just called him had a mountain of nerve.

The last time alphabet man stowed the phone, which looked more like a teenager’s than a man’s, a precocious toddler let out a series of howls that made him wince. His mouth drew in so tight and his eyes grew so thin that I thought he would unfurl a right jab and blast his fist through the window, shattering the girl’s noise and the glass. Instead, he turned and shot a disapproving glance toward the mother, who was wearing a cacophony of bright colors and carrying a garishly bright mustard-colored faux-crocodile purse that was so large and so covered with bling that it looked comical on her arm. In contrast, the child, who was obviously tired and getting louder by the nanosecond, was dressed in white from head to toe as if she’d spent Sunday in Rome being carried from Lauds to Terce to Vespers.

The driver finally boarded and we swayed our way through corridors of baggage depots dotting the underbelly of the main terminal. When we reached the tarmac where we’d board the plane, Alphabet Man slung his carry-on bag over the right shoulder of his articulate body. It was then that I noticed there was no insignia on it. Not one word marked the pale gray multi-zippered duffle with its white strap and piping. What a paradox! The one place most people carry letters and words with them, he had none.

I wondered about his story: did his strange ears make him a target for bullies as a boy; is that why he'd seemed so scrappy? What had made this graceful man so bitter? Who kept calling him? The words "BASE" and "BLOW" could obviously be construed as drug-related, so why not tattoo them in an edgy font rather than in one of the most traditional typefaces there is? I want to know what you think. How would you answer these questions? If you're in the mood to take it even further, what backstory would you create to explain this man?