Bus Report #894

Halloween Eve day, people in costumes already.

Is that woman wearing that cowboy hat for style, or for a costume? (her Halloweeny bandanna makes me think it is her costume.)
The pink-wigged, pink-backpacked, pink-boa-ed person of indeterminate gender standing on the corner: costumed or regular street clothes or somewhat unbalanced?

In the Castro, no signs of Halloween yet.
A man stops at the corner near Bank of America, reads the newest memorial poster hung on the bank's exterior. It is too dark to see the pictures on the poster but the streetlight reflects a little and I can tell the poster is covered in photos.

In Potrero, a woman dressed as a cow buys a coffee at the cafe. I wonder if she takes milk.

Bus Report #893

Early morning, I'm sleepwalking down the street to catch the 33.
Cue the woman who moves her little white car every morning.
Cue the rideshare picking up the woman in blue scrubs waiting across the street.
There's an old pug dog and his owner standing at the corner. The dog can barely walk so when the light changes, his owner picks him up and carries him to the next corner.

The light comes on in a window opposite where I'm standing. The room is big, probably meant to be a living room, bookshelves along the back wall, lamp in the corner, a TV.
A man gets up from the bed and reaches for something outside my field of vision.
He is naked, sleepy, just waking up.

Probably not expecting to see an equally sleepy but completely dressed woman watching him from across the street.

He ducks down, then stands up again, and disappears into another room.

Bus Report #892

The open doors (and windows!) of Clement, redux.

This morning was cool and dark, but no fog.
Clement Street was just waking up as I walked down the street to catch the bus.
The donut shop was busy - three customers hunched over coffees and sweet pastries.
Further down the street, a man unloaded crates of food into a dark restaurant entryway.
The homeless woman I worry about all the time stood in front of her luggage, brushing her teeth and then spitting toothpaste foam into the gutter.

A familiar face illuminated by the light of a cell phone came in to view a block later. It was the friendly bus boy from my local diner. I said good morning to him, to which he replied, "Good morning, dear."

Doors ajar at the dim sum place, doors open just a sliver at the bakery. The sugary smell of the pineapple buns almost tempting me.

The bar, the bank, barely a light on, cleaners wiping down the doors. 

That same door with the steep stairs leading up to the landing. No wet suits today, just a grey bin on top of the bench. Still somehow inviting to me.

And the windows! Not as many open as during this summer's heatwaves, but still, upper-floor windows thrown open, screenless, leading me to wonder if any birds or bats have flown inside during the night.
Windows with clothes hanging up to dry or air out, bathroom windows open to release shower steam.
A tiny galley kitchen revealed, dim orange lighting, towels hanging to the left of the window, a shaggy-haired person in baggy clothes standing in front of the stove preparing breakfast.

Across the street from the bus stop, a silhouette of a head and shoulders in the window. The lighting and the setting feels very Halloweeny.
I stare intently, is it moving? Is it real? Just when I am about to close the case on this one, the silhouette turns to the right, shape shifting, reaching a previously unseen hand out towards something else unseen.

The bus arrived on time and I got on.
Just two other passengers. Someone sitting in the back, rear-facing, shrouded in a hood so that I couldn't get a clear look at them.
The Russian woman who always Skypes her son, Skyping her son.