Bus Report #660

Last night the 22 was crowded when I got on, and there were a dozen or so men scattered throughout the bus, each man hauling a large trash bag full of stuff.
I took the window seat beside one of the men. He moved his bag so I could sit down.
"You can put it near my feet," I told him. "I'm not getting out for a while."
"Me, either," he said. He spent most of the ride picking lint off his track suit and staring out the windows.
Occasionally he would run his hand over his shaved head and inspect a cut above his eye when he could catch his reflection in our window.
Whenever I shifted in my seat he would start to stand up. "You're okay," I said each time. "I'll let you know when I need to get out."
After we passed Church Street he began getting twitchy. He would stand up and look around, sit down again. He leaned over me and peered out the window.

He got out at Hayes with the rest of the trash bag-carrying men. They were all headed for the half way house down the block.
I watched them go, this troupe of men, and though I didn't say anything, I wished them luck.