Bus Report #816
I found myself eyeing my drivers this morning with suspicion - I hadn't seen either of them all week.
Were they part of the 'sick out'? Or just driving an earlier or later route?
No way to tell without asking and I didn't want to get into it with either of them.
On the 38, the woman with too much bad perfume sat beside me. I breathed through my mouth and couldn't wait to get off the bus.
Across from us sat a teenage girl dressed all in black, patches sewn all over her sweatshirt and another homemade patch on her hat that read, "Kill the DJ." She wore slip on shoes with heart-shaped holes cut into them, her pink socks peeking out through the holes. The shoes had band names scrawled on them. I didn't know the bands, and can't remember their names now.
I had to smile because her bag and her sweatshirt also had huge Green Day logos on them. And at least in my estimation, they lost their punk cred years ago. Before the girl was even born. (But I'm a jerk and I was accidentally at their ill-fated concert in Boston back in, what, 1994? So I'm no expert. Just a hater).
Waited at Fillmore with a man who often camps out in the bus stops down on Fillmore and argues with himself. He's been doing this for years and there's obviously something very wrong with him, but sometimes I catch a glimmer of reality in his face when he passes by. Today was not one of those days as he smoked and muttered and twitched.
And what would a normal day on the 22 be without Mister Fantastic? Looking, as always, fantastic.
Leather pork pie hat, jeans, flowy but not shapeless sweatshirt, green camo tote bag with heart-shaped carabiner attached to it, spiffy new-looking kicks and his signature neon yellow wristlet.