The two of them stand waiting at the corner of 24th Street and Capp.
The elder is an aging hippie -- short in stature, relaxed in posture. His hair an earthen shade of grey, flowing long and freely from underneath his well-worn fisherman’s cap. As he squints up at the sun, I notice the map of laugh lines painting his kind face. At his side, a young Latino boy about 3/4’s his height also gazes up, mirroring his appreciation. His hair is short in a buzz cut, his jeans baggy but fit. The light turns and they saunter across the street, the little boy in tow of the elder, nipping at his Teva-shoed heels.
I wonder after the unlikely pair. How did such a partnership blossom? Is this like one of those Robin William Dead Poet’s Society mentor relationships going on here?
But, as they hit the lip of the opposite sidewalk, the two part ways and dissolve my morning daydream.
-------
The BART is crowded this morning. There are no available seats, so I stand clutching the cold steel bar. The chill shocks my warm palms. The woman below me is reading a large paperback copy of The Girl Who Played With Fire. As I stand there, I am struck by the way her pale white hands peruse the page. Her pointer finger is outstretched, fingernails black with paint, feverishly scanning the page, outlining the path of her eyes as she absorbs the story.
My eyes instinctively follow her fingers but my mind wanders. I can’t remember the last time I saw someone read with their fingers.. but, then, lo!
The BART doors slide open and a young looking Asian man enters and sits near the woman with the black nails. He seats himself directly across from the two of us and opens a binder thick with tricks and tips on accounting. Not a second later, his slight small finger falls to the page to trace the finer points of finance.
Touché.
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