There’s a little group of us who wait on the same safety island for the Red Line streetcar every morning. We never had much to say to one another until Mr. Magundi joined us.
I didn’t notice him at first, but when I made an offhand remark about the weather, and the unreliability of meteorologists, he was ready with a reply that made me ashamed of myself, and very nearly induced me to write a note of apology to the National Weather Service. I asked his name; he seemed to think for a moment, and then replied, “Salvatore Magundi.” Some of us are of the opinion that he made up that name on the spot, but he has stuck with it.
Mr. Magundi has turned our little group from a clot of bored commuters into a conversation—always with the understanding, however, that Mr. Magundi will do most of the talking, and we will do most of the listening. We think he may be partly mad, because he says things no sane person would ever say in public. But he keeps us entertained for five or ten minutes at a stretch, and we’re all grateful to him for that.