Friday, May 15, 2009

Waiting for the 28

“It’s unbelievable. Unbelievable!” said my 15-year-old son.

It was 8:45 p.m. and I pictured him leaning against the icy fog wind at the corner of 19th and Sloat. He was at the bus stop and had “already been waiting for like 10 minutes” for the 28 to show. He usually rides the bus during commuter hours, but he’d performed with his high school choir that evening.

“Honey,” I said, “You know the buses don’t run as frequently at night. Not even the 28.”

“Oaaghh,” he groaned into his thin red cell phone, “Oaarrrghh.”

“Would you like me to check online to see when the next bus is coming?”


“Hold on for a minute.”

“OK. I can’t believe this. It’s so annoying.”

I looked on the MUNI website for real time information on the 28.

“It says the next bus is coming in 15 minutes.”

“What!!!? 15 minutes!” he bellowed, “You have got to be kidding me. That is ridiculous!”

“Well, yes, that’s what it says. It’s nighttime…”

“15 minutes. Oaaagh. Mom, will you come get me?”

I thought for a moment about him standing on that wind whipped corner with the traffic swooshing by and the fog creeping over him like Jack the Ripper. He’d looked so handsome in his black suit.

“Well, honey, you know that by the time I reach you the bus will be there.”


“You know, honey? Right?”

“ALL….right,” he said.

“Are you cold?”


“Well, get in the bus shelter.”

He wasn’t dressed warmly enough but there was no use saying so. It would be annoying to him.

“If the bus doesn’t come soon, call us back.”

Twenty-five minutes passed. Any moment he’d be here.

We heard the door open, and he came in, removing his jacket. His shirt was soaked through. His hair was dripping. His face was lobster red: He’d run the three miles home. In his dress shoes. In his tie. In the fog. Uphill.

1 comment:

  1. Cynthia, this is so cool and the Poetry is terrific