Californian Gypsy

I.J Steinberg
Jun 9, 2013
3 min read

I. Today I met a smiling man who had been everywhere that mattered,

He told me he was a simple bus driver, hauling his rusted and rumbling company junk all across Atlanta,

Driving endlessly on the same streets and laughed again and again as others refused to thank him for the ride.

He told me of the family that awaited him, a wife and kids building their future from his endless drives and the things he never had,

Of how little sleep he had, the few moments of shuteye before he slips the black company collar on again and rejoins his brothers on the street.

He told me how he looks out for them, even it it’s just a wave or a quick “how you doing” bus drivers look out for each other,

If you drive the same route over and over you need a friend he said. You need someone there watching what you do and thanking you for what you do cause if they don’t thank each other no one else will, and as their busses shuffle across the smooth asphalt and duck in and out of nine to five traffic they know their friend is there and they always will be.

He told me all of this with tired eyes and a smile that never stopped,

That he was from Africa and they all smile like him.

He told me he was happy to work, he loved to see the kids that boarded his shuttle because he knew that there would be at least one to say thank you,

Coming such a long way, I asked him wherefrom?

II. Today I met a man laughing about who he was.

He was home in Sierra Leone, making his way in the world begging to be taught yet having no money to learn,

Traveling to Belgium he was made to miss the sun by a sea of dark haired sharp-nosed hipsters and old crowned lions.

He was home in California, where America showed him her teeth,

It’s where he learned home was the clothes on his back and the car he drove.

He was home when the sun rose higher than it had in Sierra Leone,

When he stepped out on the burnt sunset strip to listen to the mad poets and burning beats teaching him broken English as they sang in morose jazz clubs.

He was home on golden sand beaches, lost in the shadows of palm trees and the stench of coconut oil,

When he smiled that power-growing smile at the spring breakers clad in clothes barely covering their beer stained bosoms and sand caked legs.

He was home when he wrapped himself up in genuine American pride,

When he smiled and moved on.

III. Today I met Tamba Marah the Californian Gypsy,

I listened to him laugh at his own gypsy title,

He thanked me for liking it.

I listened to him talk about Iowa and how he stayed there for a time,

Before he moved to Georgia and never looking back.

I listened to him not minding the public union’s boot on his back,

Just to get his nap in the end.

I listened to him describe his first American love,