Bus Report #736
It was just me and the elderly teacher from a Catholic school near downtown, the two of us craning our necks and trying to spot the elusive bus through the fog.
The 38 did not arrive, and did not arrive, and finally, sandwiched between a 38L and another regular, there was our bus, almost 10 minutes later than usual.
When we got down to Fillmore I saw the 22 idling in the stop. The friendly construction worker and I dashed to the corner of the street, hoping to catch Lacey's attention before the light changed.
The construction worker waved at her, two handed, almost flapping his arms as he did so.
Lacey saw us both, smiled and opened the door.
As I got on the bus she said, "What happened? Was your bus late? I got here and was like, where is everyone?"
"Yeah, he never showed up," I said. "Thanks for waiting."
The construction worker tagged his Clipper card and nodded at Lacey, almost bowed to her.
Meanwhile, the world's oldest school crossing guard rested his STOP sign on the floor and raised his hand in a slow-motion wave. I waved back, said good morning to him, loudly, and took my seat.
At Hayes Mr. Fantastic got on. He wasn't dolled up today, and if he hadn't been carrying his trademark neon yellow wristlet I might not have even noticed him. But as he got out the bus at Market Street he managed to still made jeans and a sweatshirt look chic - it's all in his walk; head held high, shoulders back, hips swiveling oh so slightly.
A man on the bus who was most definitely not Jewish or observant still looked as though he had peyos; he had long, lank twists of hair in front of his ears that seemed to almost shoot down from his baseball cap.
I have seen Mr. Polite twice this week: once on Clement Street and once in a dream. Both times, he was walking towards me with his hands shoved in his coat pockets. Both times, he looked up and gave me a sharp nod and a "hello" and then he was gone.