Bus Report #647

The 22 Fillmore is always an adventure in the afternoons, especially if you're carrying a large and ungainly package marked FRAGILE.
I got on the 22 and sat towards the back of the bus in a window seat. It was hot out, and bright, and I was sweaty and uncomfortable by the time we got to Potrero.
A woman got on at Bryant, huffing and puffing, wearing a brown shirt and hot pink pants, both items oddly shiny.
She sat down beside me and a wave of patchouli came off of her.
I thought I might be sick.
The window above me was stuck closed and when she tried to open it, another hit of patchouli wafted off of her.
"It's stuck," I said.
"Figures," she said.
She got out at Safeway (as I had predicted - my clue? The Safeway circular in her hands) and I took a deep breath of outside air as the doors snapped open.
My next seatmate was a man who got on at Haight, forgettable except for his curly mustache that he couldn't stop stroking.
I got out at Sutter without incident, and my cardboard box made it home only a little worse for the wear.