Good Morning to Everyone, Good Morning to Everyone!

That's the standard greeting of my favorite man on the bus.

Now anyone who knows me is well aware that I'm not a sunshine, puppies, and rainbows kind of gal (in fact, anyone who knows me well is laughing at the idea that I even have to mention that). But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate the sunny-side-of-the-streeters on their own terms. Even if the only thing I notice is that my glass has a chip in it, and jesus, is that an ant floating in the bottom, how did I miss that?, I still appreciate the folks who see every glass as half-full, even the empty ones. They force me to pretend to be a better person, primarily because I feel guilty presenting myself to them in any other way.

Never underestimate the attitude-changing power of shame, people.

Anyway, I may not be Susie Smiles, but I AM deeply obsessive-compulsive (Olivia OCD?), which means I tend to make it to the bus station at almost exactly the same time every morning, which means that I often see the same cast of characters on my bus rides.

"Good morning to everyone, good morning to everyone!" man is the best of them all. He's tall and skinny, and while I'd guess he's in his early 60s, the cane he uses to get around, and the limping walk that goes with it, make him seem older. Some days he refuses a seat, standing at the front of the bus and chatting with the driver. Sometimes he's less steady.

Every single day, he opens with the same greeting and, on his way out the door, reminds everyone to "have a blessed day!"

He also plays the harmonica.

Last week, in the subway station, he beckoned me over. We'd never spoken before, but I'll admit it: I was pumped.

"You listening to my music?"

"No," I said, "but I'd like to."

At that, he pulled out a banged up harmonica from a leather pouch in his pocket and started playing--not particularly skillfully, but VERY enthusiastically--as we slowly walked towards the bus stop together.

This morning, though, when he sat down in the seat next to mine, he didn't immediately say anything to me. I assumed he forgot the encounter; probably if you're a happiness-spreading harmonica guy, you have dozens of moments like that every day.

Then he leaned over towards me...

"Do you like music?"

"I do."

"Lemme play you some music."

For the next 15 minutes, he played the harmonica, laughing, asking me if it was making me happy to hear him play. He told me he was going to Georgia soon, and asked me what the hell I was doing in New England if I was from a nice place like Minnesota ("I ask myself that every day," I told him--it got a big laugh, but I'll admit it was an easy crowd), and finally, after the third or fourth song, asked my name.

"Jilly."

"JILLY!" I've never seen anyone this excited about my name. It was like I'd told him my name was "Here'sYourFreeIceCream."

"JILLY! That's great. Jilly Jilly bo-billy, fanana-fanna! Ah, that's great!"

Then he sang the name song to me a few times.

Before he left, he asked me to give him a hug.

I never, EVER thought I'd hug a stranger on a bus. Until I did.

I may never do so again (unless "Harmonica Man," the name he told me he usually goes by, sits down next to me again), but today it made my glass seem a lot fuller.