Originally published: Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, July 2002

I sat next to the smelly, the chubby, the noisy, the sneezy, the snorer, the sleazy . . . basically each of the seven dwarfs, and their illegitimate cousins.

Two years ago, I commuted to Pittsburgh weekly, from Toronto, on a 13-hour Greyhound trek, with three middle-of-the-night stops in between. Why was I crazy enough to indulge in such behavior? I had been working at the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and my fiancee lived in Toronto. Otherwise, I wouldn't do this commuting schlep. The muscle cramps, the squished seats, standing endlessly in line and the irritating rattling bus windows can drive anyone insane.

To some, the pastiche of characters in the terminals represents the dregs of humanity, people most of us would avoid on the street. They become amusing characters whose sometimes-painful life details are ridiculed for the sake of conversation.

One day, for example, I spotted the quintessential ex-con standing in line with me. He was replete with snake-like tattoos up and down his arms, shaved head, black goatee and a 300-lb. physique. We began to chat. The first thing he did as a free man, he told me, was to buy a ticket from Buffalo to Kansas City.

"I haven't seen my 10-year-old daughter yet," he said. "You think because I waited this long, it would be nothing," referring to the two-hour delay on our Cleveland connection. "But I haven't held her hand yet."

All is not always what it seems from the surface. A diminutive man who introduced himself as Norman tugged on my arm, asking in a whisper if I could spare some change for some food. With his cut-off sleeves, sandals with protruding callused feet and droopy eyes, there was just something about him that provoked a whim of generosity.

I reached in my cluttered wallet to fish something out, and found a coupon card for a free sandwich. I wanted to avoid giving money, possibly to be used for something other than food. Wide-eyed, perhaps from the unexpected gift, he asked if he could offer me something in return. What the heck. He asked if I wanted some coke. It took me a few seconds to grasp he was actually talking about cocaine. I politely declined.

I did find it strange that he couldn't be gainfully employed as a dealer. He kept up the reciprocal offer: Would I like some heroin? No? Some crack? I turned him down as graciously as I possibly could. But he wouldn't give up. So I said, "Have you got anything other than, say, coke, heroin or crack?"

He asked, "You want weed?" We're getting nowhere here, I thought. But he dipped into his own wallet, nervously flipping until he found a card of his own -- one for half-price drinks at a local bar.

Insistently, he stretched out his hand, seeking approval, like a child who would be crushed at the first sign of displeasure. There's a certain human complexity we often overlook when dealing with "those" types.

It is a two-hour drive by horse-drawn buggy from Nehemiah's small farm in the Pennsylvania countryside to the city. Nehemiah and I stood in line together, among the throng of late-nite weary travelers in the station, tapping feet at the typically late-arriving bus.

I wore a dark blue button-down and black slacks that day, matching his Amish attire near-perfectly -- oddly, strangely; sans the beard and straw hat. But because the Buffalo terminal's air conditioning setting feels as if it's set to "meat locker," I put on a sweater. It was strange how easy it was to make myself invisible in the crowd.

That could have been me for a moment, wearing my identity on my sleeve, where everyone notices what I am. I could assimilate in an instant. It takes courage, I thought, to stick out amongst others, bravely identifying oneself as something other than the 'norm.'

Others wear their identities on their sleeves, quite literally, to worship their heroes. Take Darren.

Darren Finkleberg, the Elvis "tributor," boasts a pompadour and a Streisand schnoz, and speaks with a nasal voice. The 5-foot-1-inch tributor strikes up conversations with curious onlookers who likely are anxious to know how an odd-looking Jewish boy from Cleveland could remotely pass himself off as The King.

He refuses to be categorized as an "Elvis impersonator." One who impersonates, says Darren, verges on parody. To "tribute" someone is to pay homage, and that's his bag. He introduces himself on stage as such, reminding the audience beforehand that he won't be curling his lip or muttering deeply, "Thank yuh, thank yuh verry much."

For three months a year, he does gigs in Vegas. He spends the rest of his time as a gardener.

And there's Nathan, the "Mopper Man." Clad in standard-issue Greyhound uniform, he strikes up a conversation in the Cleveland terminal at 3:30 a.m., watching as I roll out the week's Canadian newspapers I missed while away. "All the news that's fit for the bus station, hmm?" he says.

Not more than 30, the toothpick-thin handsome mustached gentleman wiles away the hours by whistling as he mops, offering his pearly gap-tooth smile to those he asks to lift their feet for a moment.

These are real people on the fringes of society, scenes that are exotic by virtue of their ordinariness. Smiling and mopping. Paying homage. Visiting a child. Giving back to others despite your own harsh living conditions.

And in the end, communication, the aim of which is to nourish knowledge and share information, has developed into realization: Everyone has something to teach you, despite pedigree or vocation, as most of us flit from one experience to another with nary a reflective glance.