I left work late tonight, and ended up on the 33, smashed up against the window of the bus as we rolled through the dark.
My seatmate was reading Cormac
McCarthy, but I didn't see which book. She kept pulling her phone out of her pocket, jabbing at it a little, then putting it back in her pocket.
At Mission the bus emptied out. Night time, but 16th
Street BART plaza was still packed with people. No surprise.
Approaching the Castro and one woman turned to the girl sitting behind her. "Where did you get your stockings?" she asked.
"Urban," said the girl.
"Oh yeah, how much?" asked the woman.
The girl shook her head, said, "I don't remember."
A fire or police action on 18th a few blocks up from Mollie Stone's. Flashing lights, no smell of smoke.
A nearby storefront empty except for a bright pink feather boa floating in the window, surrounded by soft lighting.
People forget that at night, when their shades are up, we can see in to their homes. I wanted to browse a bookshelf in a dark wood-paneled living room off of 18th Street.
A man sat in his window, his TV screen less than a foot in front of him, his mouth slightly open, his feet stretched out along the windowsill.
I peeked in to a kitchen off the panhandle, chestnut colored wood cabinets with frosted glass fronts. A plant hanging in the window, the light on, no sign of anyone around.
I was in the Haight
last week but it still looked different to me, a new shop or restaurant here, a boarded up storefront there.
I got a new seatmate, a woman wearing (what looked like) a snakeskin jacket. She smelled like old meat, whether it was the jacket or something else I couldn't say.
She spent the rest of her ride rummaging through her two large bags, and elbowing me in the side as she did it.
A bearded boy stepped down from the bus at Fulton. He sat down on the curb and fiddled with his ipad
. The light from the screen was the only light nearby. His face seemed to glow as he hovered over it.