A train station prophet

Earlier this evening, while exiting the train station to recover my bike, I noticed a small Asian man reclining on the ground by the bike racks. And he didn't seem "street crazy" at all; he was fairly well-dressed (by my generous standards), and contentedly repose—in spite of the fierce and almost suffocating humidity. He watched me carefully as I undid the first bike lock, and then my other one, and then finally extricating my bike from the haphazard pile of cycles around me.

My bike freed, I straightened the wheel, threw up the kickstand, and adjusted my bag. That's when I heard him say,

"You know," he started, "in three years," then he pointed casually in my direction, but the rest was unintelligible.

Now, if this was the ramblings of a man that smelled like urine and was covered in soot, I probably would have smiled and said, "you said it, buster" and rode off with conviction. But tonight, this small man's collected appearance and sheer calmness intrigued me. I looked at him, puzzled.

"In three years, that," and he mumbled, his accent making it difficult to understand, "will be a bee," and after only the slightest pause, "em-dob-lo".

It took me a moment to understand what he was saying, but I figured it out.

'In three years, that will be a BMW.' He was talking about my bike.

I wasn't quite sure what to say, but I smiled.

"Thanks," and then, "I sure hope so." Though I'm actually not so sure that's true.

And I rode away with my prophecy in the hot and darkening evening.