Bus Report #712

This morning I got on the 22 and the driver, the older woman with the permed, dyed blonde hair and the jaunty hats, said, "Well, this is the last day I'll see you, I'm switching to an earlier route."
"That's too bad," I said. "Unless it's a better schedule for you."
"Not better," she said, "Just earlier."
"Well, good luck!" I said, and went to sit down.

The eighties got on at the next stop. Today she wore a jacket with shoulder pads, one of her high-waisted skirts, and thick black tights with her Reeboks.

The teens who get on in front of the Fillmore Cafe chatted with the driver for a minute and went to sit in the back of the bus like they always do.

A quiet man, who usually rides the bus with his extremely adorable little daughter, got on by himself and sat down in front of me. He always smells so good - like Ethiopian Berbere spices - and today was no exception. I took a few deep breaths and vowed to dig out the recipes from the Ethiopian cooking class I took at City College.

A few stops later I got a seat mate. He began reading the September issue of The Believer. I tried to read a couple of the articles but his arm was in the way.