Bus Report #786
At Divisadero, a trio of dirty, beery 20-somethings got on the bus. One of the boys looked like a grubby skater, one looked like a Sid Vicious wannabe, his pants falling off his flabby ass, and the girl had thick spiky hair and a green purse. She'd scribbled stuff on her purse with a Sharpie, but all I could see were the swastikas.
The three of them jostled each other and pushed their way back to near where I was sitting. Sid swilled beer from a tall can. The skater dropped his board and it hit the floor with a loud thud. The girl stood at the side of my seat.
I stared and tried not to stare at the girl's purse. Wanted to rip it from her shoulder and throw it out the window. Wanted her and her nasty friends to get off the bus.
They probably weren't watching me but I thought they were - thought they might steal my bag or grab my necklace as they got out of the bus.
Sid and the skater decided they should get out by Albertson's, and the girl agreed. I suppressed the urge to trip her down the stairs as they left. It would have been so easy. Just stretch my leg out at the exact moment she stepped to the back door. Shoot my foot out and catch her torn Keds. Watch her fall out the bus on her face. It would serve her right.
But I didn't. I couldn't.
The three of them sat on the low stone wall by the bus shelter and emptied their pockets onto the ledge. Lighters and cigarettes, bits of paper, wadded up cash, coins.
The bus pulled away as they sifted through their trash.