Before his friend, the bus driver, picked him up on the side of the road without demanding bus fare, my ride was pretty boring: listening to the men obsessively talking about last night’s futbol game, monitoring the balancing techniques of a young mom with two kids and ten bags stacked on her lap, observing the bus driver’s stellar ability to maneuver the bus’ massive manual stick while spotting and saluting his friends out the window, and watching traffic waiting for the serpentine moves of a showboating caballo on his moto to end in disaster. But all of that was about to change when I saw that ebullient, bright-eyed vagrant hop aboard and take center stage on my public bus. And there he was, facing his lucky new fan club of eight (including myself, ears perched, paper and pen in hand, ready for his signature upon performance completion, of course), with the composure of a star.
He began.
It took five seconds before I wished I was Simon Cowell so I could shake my head, hold up my hand, and tell him that his dreadful cacophonous singing needed to end right then and there. But I didn’t work for FOX, nor was he a contestant. I was stuck on a bus with a mendicant who unfortunately thought louder tones and higher notes would earn him more money.
After five minutes passed and my ears went numb, he came around to collect what he viewed as condign tips, and I had a decision to make: to tip or not to tip? Pity him or encourage his poor choice of money-making entertainment? (Some of the beggars just try to sell candy - maybe that's an option for him?) I decided to find a happy balance by donating under ₡200 (about $0.40). When I ferreted out my little change purse, I found a few old receipts, a credit card, a license, and some big bills. I had nothing to give him. I opted for the Simon Cowell route, in my own Costa Rica bus passenger style: put on my head phones, look out the window, and use my taciturn body language to hint to him to never put anyone through that again.
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