On the sidewalks of Laskie resides a small homeless camp around Bike Kitchen, which was closed, but I assume hosts hot meals daily. “What time is it?” the upright dweller asked.

Looking at my watch, “quarter to ten,” I responded. He looked at me so quizzically that I stopped. We stared at each other for a minute. Speaking slowly this time: “nine forty five.” “Oh! Thankee,” he said, and laid back down. I’d done this dance enough times to suspect a curious gap in vernacular comprehension of local homeless folks.

Shortly after, on Minna and 9th, a homeless man was winding up like a baseball pitcher. His ball was a small scrap of paper, which slowly fell to earth near the edge of the sidewalk. Somehow thinking it was a real ball, and somehow thinking it had fallen in the middle of the street, he started screaming, “timeout, timeout,” and ran into traffic. Brakes squealed and horns blared as drivers begrudgingly avoided hitting him. His imaginary ball had rolled under a car, so he got on hands and knees to reach underneath a light truck.

Near my shuttle stop, a hefty woman was perusing trinkets for sale on a blanket, and talking to herself. “He doesn’t ever take me out, say I don’t need to eat no more. I’ll buy myself something.” She was hovering over an assortment of half full hotel-sized bottles of lotion. “I know I’m a fat bitch, I don’t care, I’ll take his ass to dinner.”

Update: The Bike Kitchen is a bicycle repair coop, not a soup kitchen. I should do my research before posting, not after.