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.
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.
posted by Rachel at 9:46 AM
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