I’m sitting at the back of the 18. So is the old guy behind me; the old guy behind me who is wearing a pastel pink hat, a baby blue scarf, a 70s-style blazer, cow-print velvet pants, a multi-colour tie, and blasting earphones.
He gets up suddenly and starts clapping his hands. I’m a New Yorker so I don’t even flinch as I keep reading my paper. He is singing over and over:
“Everyone, be happy! Clap your hands! A person without happiness – what a sorry guy! Happiness is everything… Clap your hands! What else do you have to do right now?”
He’s not the panhandler I’m used to; in fact, he’s not a panhandler. He’s handing out his egozim to nearby passengers. Then he’s hanging from the overhead bars and swinging his feet as he continues his cheerful song. He lowers himself and does a little jig, making two girls nearby fall into laughter. People around him either laugh, compliment him, smile, or try to hide their smiles.
Even after he’s already desended at his stop, he’s waving at us and jigging and smiling and singing… His personal afterparty continues down Emek Refaim.
You know what? With the bit of down I’ve found myself in lately, who am I to judge a guy like that? Who am I to not take his advice? And if I do ignore his song – who am I to blame anyone but myself?
Whadya got: