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One evening recently I was waiting at a bus stop, and a man arrived who made my spidey sense go haywire.

My spidey sense doesn’t go off nearly as often since I moved to the Boston area. I was sure something was making it misfire, and was trying to figure out what cue my subconcious was misinterpreting. The guy was in mid-sixties. Not expensively dressed, but certainly not shabby. His jacket was a little light for the weather, but so was mine. He was talking to a friend on his cell phone. Nothing seemed to support the snap judgment I’d made. There was only one thing I could consciously see that I thought I might be reacting to, and that was a real stretch: he moved restlessly, shifting his weight between his feet. He swayed a little bit, like a skyscraper in a stiff gale. But if every twitchy male made my spidey sense tingle, I’d never be able to ride the T.

His friend had taken a tumble that day — slipped on ice, or something like that. Spidey-sense-setter-offer was solicitous. “At our age,” he said, “You gotta take that stuff serious. You gotta go get that checked out.”

At this point I was getting a psychosomatic twinge in the rib I’d cracked only a few blocks away and a few months ago. I was also feeling like a first-class heel for putting this guy into the “threat” category. He was clearly harmless, and I was clearly a nutter. But I kept eavesdropping. What else are you going to do at a bus stop?

Then he starts talking about his upcoming trial. His lawyer thinks he can bargain to get the charge reduced to assault. He might be able to squeak by with some community service and avoid jail time. He’s cautiously optimisic.

And me? I’m far from sure how my spidey sense works, but for the time being, I’m just going to go with it.

p.s.: for those of you who absolutely must know. . . the gentleman in question was caucasian.

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