Four weeks passed, each with their own excuse. Dark ages thankfully bygone.
My amnesiac alarm clock blunk 3:18am Thursday morning. My watch, less susceptible to power outages, reported I was 15 minutes too late for the last shuttle to work. I worked from home the rest of the day, but took a long lunch to mosey down to Glen Park.
A young Hispanic man leaning against a wiring box on Caesar Chavez and Mission was clad in a beanie and ski jacket. All black, of course. As I passed by he reached with his left hand towards his right shoulder. In moments he scrawled incomprehensible letters with gold sharpie.
His movement had all the grace and precision of an auto maker’s welding robot. From the corner of your eye, it’d look like he was scratching an itch–a skill I assumed was important when standing amidst a dozen people, a busy intersection, and broad daylight.
The light changed, and I had to move around him to cross. He’s going for two, I thought, stepping into the intersection. Looking back, sure enough I was right.