NOT FROM THE SAME PLANET AS YOURSELF

Halfway into Sausalito the flashbacks began. He had fallen over several times trying to put his bicycle on the front rack of the wrong bus, but he seemed steadier when he got to the other one. Then it turned out he didn't have any money, so the busdriver gave him a courtesy ride in order not to be delayed any further. It was a decision that I am sure he regretted.

With the flashbacks came loud tuneless singing. The pilgrim sat in the rear, with empty seats around him. At the centre of town several Germans got on, and very soon gravitated back to the front of the vehicle.
After initially going all the way back.

When we got to the bridge, he was discussing life with invisible people.

On Lombard Street, all the Germans got off, and he came to the front and sat across the aisle from me to tell the busdriver about astrology. He was fascinated by the driver's aura, but sensed from me that given even half a chance I would rip his throat out. He did not mean to shout at me, sorry.
He had tinnitus from his rave days back in the nineties.


I continued to radiate murderous negativity.
He picked up on that very well.
It discomfited him.


He disembarked at the same stop as I did. When I reached the intersection, I looked back and saw him already in the other block, arguing furiously with what appeared to be a street sign.

Further down the street toward my building a dishevelled person started up a conversation about cups of tea with a closed door. As I passed they got to the milk and sugar stage. The door would not tell him whether either were needed, or if the tea was fine as it was. The door stayed closed and silent.

If anything, it glowered in a hostile manner.
As doors are meant to do.
Keep out.




Home. My weekend. First strong coffee, maybe a nap. Two or three hours. Then a late night smoke while talking a walk. It is not at all unlikely that a glass of Scotch and water will be in play.





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