CREAKING NOISE

Both yesterday and today the Muni bus over the hill had eccentric-and-on-the-spectrum passengers. Besides myself, I mean. This may have something to do with under-the-surface goofiness in one particular ethnicity -- shan't mention which because I do not want to get lynched while eating lunch and enjoying a hot cup of milk tea in what is actually the safest neighborhood in San Francisco -- but I've noticed a fair amount of that over the years.

In both cases I didn't say anything in their language. I did not want to set them off or be recognized every time they saw me. Like that dude with whom I engaged in conversation one evening nearly ten years ago outside a karaoke bar, who has never forgotten.
Although his mind has finally grown dim.


One recent conversation that I wished I could have gotten out of was with the gentleman explaining that when colonic distress hit, as it did often, he wished that there were a ceiling mounted clock in his bathroom because sometimes he had to recline on the tiles in a cold sweat till things had eased, and he wished to time himself during those moments.
Also, an ashtray and cup rest at ankle level. Plus a space heater.

The space heater I can thoroughly understand. But I didn't tell him which make of same we have in the bathroom, because I did not want him assuming that I or anybody else was similarly afflicted, nor did I want to encourage him to say anymore. As public transit conversations go, that one was a doozy I could have done without.

While waiting for the bus uphill after visiting one of our usual haunts this evening the book seller mentioned that he sometimes is the abashed and dismayed recipient of senior citizen discounts. He is younger than I am, and doesn't yet qualify for the senior citizen transit pass. But I look young and spry, plus innocent. He sometimes has a knowing and world-weary look about him, the wise elder, whereas I often seem like an uncomplex middle-aged goobus.

Then we talked about arthritis, and joints. Comparing notes.
Picking things up off the ground means creaky noises.
An imagined chorus of laughter. Or clapping.

This was an unconscious segue from a comment I had muttered earlier, to the effect of blaming the deity for my legs, which hurt considerably because I had probably played too much soccer as a youth and the cold of the night affected hips, knees, and feet.

Also, that if it ever got below forty degrees in San Francisco I should purchase two extra woolen mufflers to wrap around my knees.



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