Hungover and In Love (with Tutankhamun)

I'm waiting for the coach home at Victoria Station when a tall, thin, goat-faced man with brown skin and dreadlocks stands in front of me, and looking down at me through his sunglasses says:
"Sister, I want to go to Falmouth, I've got my ticket right here..."
He talks loudly in a hoarse, french-tinted voice. People look at him with distrust. He smells like the dirty kid at school has been up all night drinking gin.
"The coach is just there look behind the Plymouth one, the 504. We're just waiting for this front one to leave and then we'll board." I say.
"It isn't going yet, but soon it will." The man agrees, nodding happily. I smile and look away. The man stays standing in front of me, still facing me.
"I'm going to see my son." He says.
"Oh right." I say.
"I'm going to see my baby boy."
"Oh good." I say.
"I just want to get there you know."
I nod and look away, take a very casual step to the right. The goat man is undeterred. "I'm a musician," he continues. I try not to reply but his long hopeful face is looking at me eagerly.
"What do you play?" I ask reluctantly. Noone else in the queue is talking.
"Ah, women... guitars..." he laughs.
I take an obvious step away from him now, but he just moves closer.
"Are you going all the way to Falmouth?" He asks.
"Yes."
"Sister! You've got a neighbour!"

"I'm a musician!" He says loudly to noone in particular. "I'm going to see my son!"
I start fiddling around in my rucksack, trying to distance myself from the wild goat man when he says; "I've fallen in love actually..." and then leans down to whisper in my ear, "with a girl who looks like Tutankhamun!"
He shouts the last word and grins.
"Wasn't he a small boy?" I ask.
"Ha! Ha! It's crazy!" He laughs loudly and I laugh too.
"I'm listening to Prince!" He shouts and I realise he's wearing headphones. "Prince is a genius!" He says loudly and people turn around to look at us. "This is new stuff, I bought it for my son. I'll let you listen to it on the coach." He says smiling. "I'm going to sleep all the way back if I can."
"Me too." I say and we stand together silently.

The driver tells us we can board the coach and asks for those with luggage to bring it over to the hold. Those without luggage form a line in front of the door. Everyone queues up neatly, impatient and impeccably behaved. My neighbour queues with me for the hold. My back is to him but he's still talking loudly, "Prince is a genius! I'm going to see my son!"
"I'm a musician!" he shouts at the old women waiting to board the bus opposite us. They avert their eyes, only staring when he looks away.
"Where to?" the driver asks me, ready to write on my bag with a piece of yellow chalk.
"Falmouth," I tell him, handing him my bag.
When I turn back round my neighbour is still there, grinning and empty handed. He doesn't have any luggage.
The old women waiting at the front of the queue to get onto the coach stare at the man who they suspect has been drinking and know is a musician.
"Ladies," he says politely, tipping his imaginary cap to them. He makes a fist and holds it out for me to knock my knuckles against. I touch his knuckles with mine and laugh.
"I'm a musician, you know..." He says.
"I know, you've told me about four times... And Prince is a genius and you're going to see your son. Good."
"D'you want to see a picture of my son?" He asks.
"Okay." I say and he slowly puts his hand into the chest pocket on his shirt and pulls out a folded piece of paper. For some reason, I think about how funny it would be if the piece of paper had my face on it and I almost laugh. He unfolds it and holds it out for me to see.
"He looks nice." I say. My neighbour is in the picture too, just the same but without sunglasses. The boy's probably about seven or eight. He's standing in front of his dad laughing.
"What's his name?" I ask.
"Louie." He says.
"Good name."
"I only have one baby." He says firmly.

We're at the front of the queue to board now and the driver is all sweaty and stressed. He tuts when I hand him my e ticket because it's folded up so small. His hands shake as he opens it, checks it, then hands it back to me. I get on the bus as my neighbour hands him his ticket.
"You've been drinking." I hear the driver say gruffly as I walk up the aisle.
"Oh no, I'm not drinking anymore," my neighbour says in his slow, quiet voice.
"But you have been and it's company policy not to allow anyone who's been drinking to board the coach..." The driver says matter of factly.
"Oh no, no, I'm not drinking anymore..." He tries again.
"Company policy." The driver says, then abruptly; "No. I don't want to see a picture of your son..." I walk back down the aisle and stand on the steps.
"Maybe he drank last night and that's what you can smell...?" I say hopefully. My neighbour is looking forlornly at the driver.
"You're my sister." He says softly to me.
"Company policy." The driver says belligerently.
He won't budge.
"I'm sorry..." I say to my friend, "I'll see you later."
I walk back to my seat. I can hear the driver defending himself to the now compassionate old women in the front seats.
"I've seen it hundreds of times before ' he'd be vomiting down the windows or shouting and moving about. I don't want that all the way down the bloody M4..."
"Looks like you've been saved." A boy says turning around in his seat to me, and I suddenly feel very defensive.