He walks onto the skytrain holding a very large rubber boot. Inside the boot is a crumpled up reflective vest, a folded up umbrella, soaking wet, which must be getting the inside of the boot wet, and some kind of tool that his green hard hat is dangling on.

There’s only one boot. I don’t understand.

His face is small and his head is big. He has rough hands. One of them is holding a Tim Horton’s cup, large, and he keeps looking into the opening on the lid and smiling. It isn’t joy though, it’s mischievous.

He mumbles something to himself in the reflection from the doors. He chuckles. I worry.

It doesn’t help that I see this man as a Cormac McCarthy character. Although it brings me joy to see him that way, it also puts me on edge. If that doesn’t make sense you’ve never read Cormac. But you should, so you can understand the man that just wandered onto transit. He looks how I picture Lester Ballard when I read about him.

I can’t look away. I have to know what he’s smiling about. The skytrain kicks as it starts up from another stop. It’s never a smooth ride and I think that’s by design. The man defies gravity, he’s not holding any bars, not leaning on anything, not spilling the coffee he’s bringing toward his mouth as the train bucks.

I’m impressed. Maybe he added Baileys. Maybe it isn’t coffee at all. Maybe that’s why he’s smiling so much. We approach the next stop and as if to answer the question that’s eating me up inside, he looks around when the door opens and then gently places the cup on the yellow line, that’s the line that tells you not to stand there so you don’t get mangled by the train.

He stands up proudly. He waits a couple seconds. He kicks the coffee over and spills it everywhere. He chuckles to himself with such joy. The bell dings which means the doors are going to close. He gives it another kick to make sure it all spills out.

He looks at his reflection like he’s some kind of conqueror.

I debate whether I should laugh or not. But let’s be real, I laughed.

Where the hell is the other boot?