So, I’m waiting for the 9-Powell bus, right?
And this dude comes — I swear, he looks Haitian, though the other “zombeis” I’ve seen have been white, an Asian-blend, so it takes all kinds to be “abandoned” in “mid-life” — rambling by with a sort of erraticness I’ve come to suspect anyway, but then, he veers into the street, nonchalantly, with no sense of purpose, ultimately making a truck stop and wait for him as he bothers to cross without bothering to wait for the light or go to the crosswalk …
Bus comes, much later, and he runs across the street, and hops on board.
I’ve got Red House Painters [Rollercoaster] playing, so I can’t hear him yelling — except for that he’s yelling, not what — which gets everyone else riled up to the point where the bus driver asks him to leave (you know: the “ask” a bus driver can make with his arm extended, pointed towards the door, with the bus stopped for this purpose).
We’re over the river by now, on the early part of the downtown loop, and he’s standing there — the “zombei,” I swear, he’s empty, there’s no-one home — chewing his gum, both frantically and indifferently, somehow, shouting to be heard every time he talks.