Bus Report #436
Mostly uneventful week on Muni.
The first half of it I was sick, doped up on cold medicine, so the rides were dull around the edges and felt quick as I drifted in and out of sleep against the window of whatever bus I was on.
Three days on the 22 with catfish face man, the crushed, dirty, lavender faux-leather hat wearer, and several mind bogglingly styling sewing ladies.
Check out these outfits on the 2 Clement and 22 Fillmore:
-Lady with yellow jeans, matching yellow socks, pumpkin colored shoes and matching nail polish, with electric blue jacket with pumpkin colored cuffs.
-Older lady with lime green shoes and matching lime green sweater.
-Woman in leather duffel coat with bright pink turtleneck. The turtleneck was printed with a citrus and strawberry pattern.
Monday through Wednesday I walked by the same used condom on the corner of 16th and San Bruno. It was gone this morning.
I gave a wide berth to the developmentally disabled man who always has his mouth stuffed full of straws, stirrers or paper cups. He's got a routine, and I am not going to be the person to break his routine.
Overheard last night on the 22 (all conversations were in Spanish, translated here for your benefit):
Man to friend: How's it going?
Friend: Oh, you know, another year older, another year closer to death.
Man: Yeah.
Woman with glasses: Hey! What are you doing on this bus?
Short man in T-shirt: Oh, my damned phone broke, had to get it fixed.
Woman with glasses: That's too bad. But next time you're down here, we should get lunch.
Short man in T-shirt: Sounds good.
Older man of indeterminate age, toothless, carrying plastic bags and a small boombox, either talking on a cell phone to a friend, or else just talking to himself (hard to tell):
Yes, I am a Cuban. Well, here in America they call me a black American. But I am Cuban. They sometimes call me a 'Cuban Captain'.
He repeated this statement, or a variation of it, over and over again. His accent was so familiar and comforting, and musical, I wanted him to keep talking.
He got out at Turk and immediately put on the boombox. It sounded tinny and echoey, and played an old song I couldn't place.
The first half of it I was sick, doped up on cold medicine, so the rides were dull around the edges and felt quick as I drifted in and out of sleep against the window of whatever bus I was on.
Three days on the 22 with catfish face man, the crushed, dirty, lavender faux-leather hat wearer, and several mind bogglingly styling sewing ladies.
Check out these outfits on the 2 Clement and 22 Fillmore:
-Lady with yellow jeans, matching yellow socks, pumpkin colored shoes and matching nail polish, with electric blue jacket with pumpkin colored cuffs.
-Older lady with lime green shoes and matching lime green sweater.
-Woman in leather duffel coat with bright pink turtleneck. The turtleneck was printed with a citrus and strawberry pattern.
Monday through Wednesday I walked by the same used condom on the corner of 16th and San Bruno. It was gone this morning.
I gave a wide berth to the developmentally disabled man who always has his mouth stuffed full of straws, stirrers or paper cups. He's got a routine, and I am not going to be the person to break his routine.
Overheard last night on the 22 (all conversations were in Spanish, translated here for your benefit):
Man to friend: How's it going?
Friend: Oh, you know, another year older, another year closer to death.
Man: Yeah.
Woman with glasses: Hey! What are you doing on this bus?
Short man in T-shirt: Oh, my damned phone broke, had to get it fixed.
Woman with glasses: That's too bad. But next time you're down here, we should get lunch.
Short man in T-shirt: Sounds good.
Older man of indeterminate age, toothless, carrying plastic bags and a small boombox, either talking on a cell phone to a friend, or else just talking to himself (hard to tell):
Yes, I am a Cuban. Well, here in America they call me a black American. But I am Cuban. They sometimes call me a 'Cuban Captain'.
He repeated this statement, or a variation of it, over and over again. His accent was so familiar and comforting, and musical, I wanted him to keep talking.
He got out at Turk and immediately put on the boombox. It sounded tinny and echoey, and played an old song I couldn't place.
posted by Rachel at 7:32 AM
1 Comments:
This reads like a tiny wonderful movie. Hope you are feeling better today.
Post a Comment
<< Home