Bus Report #971
I waited for the bus in the early morning sunlight, the delicious buttery smell from Arsicault teasing me, trying to lure me across the street to stand in line for a croissant. But I was strong, and I resisted.
The 33 was late, and Leon was not our driver.
In the Haight, two very, very drunk men tried to get in through the back door. One of them could not even stand up on his own, so his friend tried to help him, but the drunker of the two (in four layers of torn, oversized pants and vests) just slumped in the step well for a moment, and then climbed halfway onto the bus from the stairs. He then started to crawl - sort of - his grimy fingernails scrabbling against the floor.
We all stared at them. The driver stated the obvious, "Sir, you can't stay there, you can't block the steps."
The less-drunk of the two helped his friend stand up, and then pulled him into the seat right behind me.
The rest of their ride, the really drunk man kept yelling something that sounded like "16 Haight Street," to which his friend nodded each time.
We were about to take the hairpin turn onto Market when the less-drunk man asked the driver when we'd get to Haight Street.
She turned around and stared at him. "I picked you up on Haight Street. If you want Haight Street, you never should have gotten on the bus. You gotta get out, cross the street, and wait for the other bus to take you back."
The less-drunk man stood up and gestured for his friend. The very drunk man slow-motioned his way to the stairs and then disembarked one molasses-slow step at a time. As we drove away minutes later, I watched the drunker man slump to the sidewalk, where he stayed until we were completely out of sight.
The 33 was late, and Leon was not our driver.
In the Haight, two very, very drunk men tried to get in through the back door. One of them could not even stand up on his own, so his friend tried to help him, but the drunker of the two (in four layers of torn, oversized pants and vests) just slumped in the step well for a moment, and then climbed halfway onto the bus from the stairs. He then started to crawl - sort of - his grimy fingernails scrabbling against the floor.
We all stared at them. The driver stated the obvious, "Sir, you can't stay there, you can't block the steps."
The less-drunk of the two helped his friend stand up, and then pulled him into the seat right behind me.
The rest of their ride, the really drunk man kept yelling something that sounded like "16 Haight Street," to which his friend nodded each time.
We were about to take the hairpin turn onto Market when the less-drunk man asked the driver when we'd get to Haight Street.
She turned around and stared at him. "I picked you up on Haight Street. If you want Haight Street, you never should have gotten on the bus. You gotta get out, cross the street, and wait for the other bus to take you back."
The less-drunk man stood up and gestured for his friend. The very drunk man slow-motioned his way to the stairs and then disembarked one molasses-slow step at a time. As we drove away minutes later, I watched the drunker man slump to the sidewalk, where he stayed until we were completely out of sight.
posted by Rachel at 11:01 AM
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