Bus Report #564
Monday morning, 22 Fillmore bus stop, 6:40 AM.
The Fillmore is dead silent, no people, no cars, no buses, just me and the woman who always stands right next to me. And Santa.
Not the real Santa, but a skinny, crazy, fucked up Santa, in a droopy hat, yelling and ranting to no one. He is beardless, jacketless, his shirt hangs off his bony shoulders and his hands can't stay still.
He stands in the middle of Fillmore Street, oblivious to the few cabs and cars that come by. They slow for him, wary, unsure of what he will do.
Does he want to die this morning? I ask myself. He screams his way towards Post Street, still zig-zagging his way down Fillmore.
The Fillmore is dead silent, no people, no cars, no buses, just me and the woman who always stands right next to me. And Santa.
Not the real Santa, but a skinny, crazy, fucked up Santa, in a droopy hat, yelling and ranting to no one. He is beardless, jacketless, his shirt hangs off his bony shoulders and his hands can't stay still.
He stands in the middle of Fillmore Street, oblivious to the few cabs and cars that come by. They slow for him, wary, unsure of what he will do.
Does he want to die this morning? I ask myself. He screams his way towards Post Street, still zig-zagging his way down Fillmore.
posted by Rachel at 1:20 PM
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