The salesman was still there, nursing a swollen nose that was almost as comical as the one perched on Simon’s nose.

No real anger remained inside Simon. Only sheer exhaustion. “Didn’t I just tell you to sod off?” he said, turning down the sidewalk towards the bus stop. The salesman was hot on his heels like a lost puppy.

“Sir, I wanted to apologize,” he said. He was the kind of fellow who gestured as he spoke. “I-I was taken aback by how much you looked like my father.”

He settled besides Simon’s glare on the bus stop bench. “Comedy in whiteface.” Somber airs draped his face. Simon thought the man could easily have been a clown. “That timeworn, under-appreciated profession of my father. It weren’t meant to be. I just wasn’t funny enough.”

“Now fuck off. I mean it this time. That sob story ain’t gonna hawk you your wares.”

“Now, my friend, that’s speaking before seeing.” The salesman hauled his suitcase onto his lap and snapped open the latches.

“My God,” whispered Simon.

Angels seemed to sing.