Mr Smith greeted me with a broad smile. As usual, his face was half shaven, his coat full
of coffee stains and his eyes reflecting a glimmer of parental affection. Extending a high-
five to me, he welcomed me into his old bus as I swiped the public transport card on my
way. Reciprocating with a rather enthusiastic high five, I wobbled clumsily towards my
usual window seat.
I had chosen my seat on the bus rather strategically, so that I could talk to Mr. Smith on
the way to college, and at the same time, get a view of my beautiful town. Normally, the
one hour journey to college would have seemed gloomy and boring, but with Mr.
Smith right ahead of me, it seemed to pass by quicker.
Everyday, he would talk to me via the rearview mirror, often narrating stories about the
various townspeople he had encountered over the years. I knew what Mrs. Johnson
hated, what Mr. William loved, who Davis loathed and who Garcia adored the most,
owing to Mr. Smith’s accounts.
Today, on the way to university, it was Mr Smith’s turn to talk about whom he called ‘
an annoyingly intellectual and talkative young chap.”
“I just had a chat with him yesterday. He showed up at my house at an odd hour. Said it
was to make some end of the day sales,” he mentioned, waving his hand in a
Curious, I leaned over and rested my chin over my palms, ready to listen to another
interesting anecdote. Throughout Mr Smith’s account, he never mentioned, even once,
what his name was. I too didn’t bother to ask, just to maintain the suspense in the air .
Finally, when he was done, Mr Smith mentioned “ You must have heard of him.
suppose he is the kind of fellow who is known for being a wierdo.” Taking a second to
recall the name, he scratched his head and remarked “ Ah yes, Lucas! That’s how he
introduced himself. I’m pretty sure you know him, mutually if not directly. It’s a rather
Aghast, I leaned back. I did know Lucas. I had most definitely heard of him. Afterall,
he was the 25 year old salesman who mysteriously died over five years ago.