THE PEOPLE RAN DEEP, hot June day on a bus to Mission, streaming along Van Ness with jolts and jots and drops, ‘stop requested’s’ along the jalopy way. Stings of scents from strangers—pleasant some, others of filth and sweat and unwashed jeans, urine—lofted through. Through the window, a teenager took a hit from a pipe on a church’s steps, homeless man’s belongings hung on a fence, treasures scattered on the sidewalk, change-begging. Produce fresh everywhere, fresh faces, neighborhoods blended by delis and dives, dogs and drifters.
And making no eye contact, following no path to any feet or forearms that could lead to a stare, I watched the window, and the buildings blitz by two blocks at a time as riders shifted on and off.
I couldn’t remember what I was doing here.
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