Bus Report #799
I walked up to the Sutter Street stop. It is usually quieter than the Geary stop, and the trees above it are so beautiful and majestic, and hauntingly grey white in the early morning light. I like standing under them and staring up into their canopy.
I waited in the Sutter Street stop and passed the time listening to 99% Invisible while I took in the trees. This morning their branches looked almost sinuous, snake-like, and the leaves sounded dry when the wind rustled through them.
The world's oldest school crossing guard, Mr. Taylor, shuffled down the street from around the corner. He sipped from his travel mug and said in a thin, whispery voice, "Good morning to you, Rachel."
"Good morning Mr. Taylor," I replied. "How are you doing?"
"Oh, you know, can't complain," he said.
He spoke so softly I had to read his face in order to really understand him. I hadn't noticed before but he has deep wrinkles that cut down his cheeks from the corners of his eyes, almost like scars. His skin is taut across his face and cheekbones and other than the eye wrinkles, perfectly smooth. A handsome man. I bet he was really something in his youth.
He shook his head and smiled a little, said, "How about that missing plane?"
We debated conspiracy theories for a moment, and then the bus announced itself with a hydraulic whine and I stepped back so Mr. Taylor could board first.