This morning the 38 smelled like bad body odor and old food. I opened a few windows and sat down.
Easy ride down to Fillmore where I waited in the bus stop alone, the sky still not quite light yet.
The bus was empty when it arrived and I got on. It soon filled with regulars - the construction guys I can never understand, high school kids that go to a Christian academy, a couple sharply dressed men in spiffy shoes and severe eye glasses. A day laborer wearing a hat from a Republican National Convention some years back.
Mister Fantastic, looking effortlessly fantastic as always. Dark jeans and a patterned Giants hat. A new bag that looked suspiciously like pretty man's olive dopp kit - only Mister Fantastic's was black to match his jacket, his shoes, his Clark Kents. Mister Fantastic is growing out his beard, too - with long sideburns that look (potentially, to this non-face shaver) hard to cultivate and maintain.
Those two. Really. They're already on the same beard-growing schedule, have similar bags, why aren't they married with five equally handsome and sleek dogs yet? (I'm thinking, greyhounds or great danes).
At Dolores our driver, a slightly severe, by-the-book guy, closed the back door on a man who was trying to get on without paying his fare. The doors closed on the man's hand and for a moment the hand looked like Thing from the Addam's Family, wriggling and trying to grab hold of something.
The driver made no move to open the door and the man, though he moved his hand up and down, didn't try to pry open the door.
"Hey," I called up to the driver, "Um, you've closed the door on this guy's hand."
My seatmate, a usually humorless girl with fried, overdyed hair, hopped up and stepped down to open the door. The man got on, muttered "thanks" to her, and hugged the nearest pole while arranging his half-dozen shopping bags around him.