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Marie sat on the hard plastic bus terminal bench, staring. A man sat across from her. He looked at the floor. Marie wondered if he was curious about how all those little speckles got into the tiles too.

“Don’t stare Baby,” her mother said then ruffled her magazine and continued reading.

“I’m not.” Marie continued to watch the man. His hair was dark. Greasy tufts stuck out in all directions from under a knitted cap that was too tight for his head. His clothes were rumpled and dirty. He wore a large dark green jacket and brown pants. Long johns the color of dirty dish water poked through holes and worn spots in his pants.

“Mister?” Marie whispered. She glanced quickly at her mother to see if she’d heard. “Mister?” Marie was louder this time; her whisper was nearly a hiss.

He looked up. “Wha?”

His eyes were glassy and wide. The right one was bigger than the other. One was covered in a white film with a little – maybe green or blue or brown – showing through. Marie leaned forward and asked, “Are you in a club?”

“You know I’m not Baby,” Momma said. She didn’t look up from the tattered magazine. When Momma was reading a magazine about famous people (or one of those paper books with the handsome men and pretty women on the cover) she barely heard or saw anything.

Marie shimmied off of her seat. “Stop squirming Baby. Just a little longer wait,” Momma said into the magazine. “’Kay,” Marie replied as she stepped to the side then toward the man.

“I asked if you’re in a club,” Marie told him.

He stared at her with his large, mismatched eyes. Something yellow-brown was dried into his scraggy beard. Egg? she wondered.

“A club?”

“Yeah,” Marie said as she climbed into the seat next to him. “A club. I saw a man in Chicago – or Cleveland maybe – yesterday.” She stopped and thought. Marie’s face scrunched up into a tight point as though all her features were trying to hang out with her nose while she tried to remember. “Or maybe the day before. He was dressed like you. Same colors. His jacket was like yours too, but a little different. Is it a club?”

The man looked at her for a moment. He seemed to be waiting for something, but Marie didn’t know what, so she just waited back.

“We’s bums,” he said. When he spoke, little spit drops hit Marie’s face and hands. She tried not to be rude and flinch, but couldn’t help it. He didn’t seem to notice. “We’s bums,” he said again when Marie didn’t say anything.

“What do you mean you’re bums? Bums are what you sit on. Your rear.” Marie blushed as she explained.

The bum stared at Marie in her stained, pink jumper, mismatched sneakers, and oversized winter jacket. Dirt was smeared around her face. A ring of grime had collected in the folds of her little neck. “We’s bums,” he said again. This time he pointed between himself and Marie. “Livn outsd. Not nuff fud. Dirt clothes.”

Momma shifted, flipping the pages of the magazine she’d gotten out of the trash. It had come from the same garbage bin as their dinner. “We’ve got enough money to buy dinner or bus tickets to Boston,” she said taking the half-eaten roast beef sandwich out of the bin. “This way, we get dinner and we get to Boston.”

Marie stuck her hand out at the bum. Dirt was caked under her nails and lint was stuck to her fingers. She wiped the hand against her pants trying to clean it a little then thrust it toward him again. She blushed a little at how dirty her hand was and hoped he wouldn’t mind shaking it.

“Marie,” she said then moved toward him.

The bum pulled back as she advanced. “Nuhm?” he said.

“I’m Marie. It’s nice to meet you.” She spoke more loudly and slowly. She tried to be clearer since he didn’t seem to understand her name the first time.

“Norm.” He said his name carefully. Marie watched Norm’s face as he said his own name. His lips twitched and faltered like they weren’t used to making the shapes or weren’t sure how to make the word. Then he smiled. Norm was missing two teeth. Four more were cracked and missing pieces. All of them were the same yellow-brown as the egg in his beard. “Norm.” He said his name confidently. He said it like he recognized it.

“928 to Boston and points south! Platform 16! Boarding now!” crackled an old, haggard voice from above.

Momma jumped up and dropped the magazine onto her seat. “That’s us Baby,” she said turning to Marie’s empty seat. “Marie!” she shouted.

“Here Momma,” Marie said from across the aisle. “This is Norm,” she said as Momma snatched her hand and dragged her off the plastic seat.

“What’ve I told you about talking to strangers?” Momma hissed as she dragged the girl toward the platform.

“Bye Norm!” Marie yelled, waving with her free hand. Norm smiled at the floor and waved.

“But Momma,” Marie whined. “How’m I supposed to make friends if I don’t talk to strangers?”

“Bums ARE NOT our friends,” Momma said as she dragged Marie through the double doors onto the platform.