Skirting the Issue

Leave it to the rain to bring all the wack-a-doodles out of the woodwork on SEPTA.  Until today, my daily commute has been surprisingly uneventful, which, if you’re a regular on the R5, is the most you could hope for.

After getting settled on the outside seat of my two-person row (yes, I am that anti-social commuter who will make it as difficult as possible for you to sit next to me), I looked up and gawked. All of my mother’s years of “it’s not polite to stare” went out the window. I looked. I looked away. I looked again.

There, seated across from me was a disheveled man in a baggy tank top and a loose-fitting hemp skirt. SKIRT! On a Wednesday morning at 7:30, no less.

At first, I thought he was on an incredibly unfortunate “train of shame” ride home from a Flintstones themed party and his foot-powered car got towed by the Philadelphia Parking Authority. But as I looked (gawked) further, it appeared that, perhaps, this was how he dressed all the time.

From his scruffy beard to his shoes that looked like leather pouches loosely fitted around his feet to his four large bags made from coarse woven fabric, I wondered WHO this skirted nomad was and how he ended up Paoli/Thorndale bound.

The bearded lady who escaped from the circus?

An overgrown dyslexic man-child who confused SEPTA with SHERPA?

Bin Laden’s now unemployed pasty stunt double? I don’t think we’re in Abbottabad anymore, Toto.

Regardless, I hope he is headed to a better place than wherever it was he came from. He sure looked like he could use a good night’s sleep, a pair of trousers and a hearty meal… I wonder if he likes skirt steak.

Submitted by guest blogger Mia Angiolillo