Bus Report #225

This morning's commute was bad.
It started out okay: easy ride on the 38 Geary. I saw D. he was planning to take the 38 to the 10.
I joked, "Let's see who gets in first."
Jokes on me. D. probably got to work half an hour before I did, at least.

So on Fillmore, I waited at the stop with the dreadlocked dental technician, the girl who always stands in front of me, the handsome South Asian chef and a bunch of other regulars.
I listened to NPR. I watched 5 22 Fillmores pass us in the opposite direction.
Finally, 15 minutes later, a 22 Fillmore came to get us. By now the number of people waiting had doubled. I got on and went straight to the back where I sat in a forward-facing seat.
The handsome South Asian chef sat in the rear-facing seat right in front of me.
He was tired. His usually wide eyes were a little smaller. He kept yawning, placing both hands over his mouth. He didn't have a Walkman or backpack with him today. Instead, his pockets bulged with stuff.
It was obvious that he was annoyed at the lateness of the bus. So was I. He sat hunched over a little with his hood up. Every now and then he would tuck his hair further back under the hood. He would look at his watch, then roll his eyes and shake his head. We smiled at each other and it meant, 'this sucks. We're going to be late, these kids are driving us crazy, but what can we do?'

"I've seen at least 13 go by in the other direction," I said softly.
He nodded. "At least it's Friday," he said.
At Bryant he got his cell phone out of his pocket and called someone. I couldn't hear them but I imagine he was calling work to report his lateness.
I got out further down the route than usual.
"Have a good weekend," I told him.
"You, too," he said.