The Bus Man was always smiling. He was thin, with wispy hair, and had kind eyes. He came every weekend to your cul-de-sac in his wee bus, that was, come to think of it, a wardrobe on wheels.
The women in your family were especially happy to see him.
They clambered in the back, and had a good time, going through his plastic-wrapped stock of clothes and towels, chatting this and that.
As a boy, you always believed the bus contained an entrance to a mysterious world, like Narnia. It was somewhere behind those clothes, you were sure of it.
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