Bus Report #795
This morning the 38 pulled in to my stop while the elderly schoolteacher was still a half block away.
I got on the bus slowly, gestured to the driver to wait for her, and he did.
A few stops later, a scarecrow of a man hailed the bus.
He wore an orange dish washing glove on his hand, the fingertips torn off. It was only halfway on his hand, as though it was too small for him, and it looked like a scary hand puppet.
He held his pants on with his other hand and lurched up onto the bus, one bare foot and one semi-sneakered one sliding across the floor.
He didn't speak to anyone, just pinballed down the aisle while people shrank away from him, until he got to the back of the bus.
Right before I got out at Fillmore he ping-ponged back to the front of the bus, sitting in one seat, and then another, dropping the glove on the floor and then scrabbling for it under the seats.
The elderly schoolteacher and I exchanged glances.
I got out and ran for the 22, which had just arrived at the stop across the street.
Caught the bus and sat down beside a girl eating a fully loaded bagel with the works - lox, cream cheese, onion. But I'm a Jewish girl from Boston so it didn't faze me a bit. Reminded me of lazy Sunday mornings with the Boston Globe and a full pot of coffee.
The smiley teen saw me and waved, then went back to texting.
The bus was fast this morning and when I got to Potrero Hill it was still fairly dark. The sky was striped blue and grey and green and there were four helicopters hovering overhead, news helicopters covering the massive Mission Bay fire from last night. The wind this morning was intense. Trash and upturned garbage cans were strewn all up and down the street and the smell of smoke still lingered in the air. I coughed my way down 16th Street and brushed grit from my face, blinked dirt from my eyes.
I got on the bus slowly, gestured to the driver to wait for her, and he did.
A few stops later, a scarecrow of a man hailed the bus.
He wore an orange dish washing glove on his hand, the fingertips torn off. It was only halfway on his hand, as though it was too small for him, and it looked like a scary hand puppet.
He held his pants on with his other hand and lurched up onto the bus, one bare foot and one semi-sneakered one sliding across the floor.
He didn't speak to anyone, just pinballed down the aisle while people shrank away from him, until he got to the back of the bus.
Right before I got out at Fillmore he ping-ponged back to the front of the bus, sitting in one seat, and then another, dropping the glove on the floor and then scrabbling for it under the seats.
The elderly schoolteacher and I exchanged glances.
I got out and ran for the 22, which had just arrived at the stop across the street.
Caught the bus and sat down beside a girl eating a fully loaded bagel with the works - lox, cream cheese, onion. But I'm a Jewish girl from Boston so it didn't faze me a bit. Reminded me of lazy Sunday mornings with the Boston Globe and a full pot of coffee.
The smiley teen saw me and waved, then went back to texting.
The bus was fast this morning and when I got to Potrero Hill it was still fairly dark. The sky was striped blue and grey and green and there were four helicopters hovering overhead, news helicopters covering the massive Mission Bay fire from last night. The wind this morning was intense. Trash and upturned garbage cans were strewn all up and down the street and the smell of smoke still lingered in the air. I coughed my way down 16th Street and brushed grit from my face, blinked dirt from my eyes.
posted by Rachel at 8:26 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home