“You need to put your shoes on.”
“Because you’re in a public place.”
The perpetrator is skinny and scruffy, and homeless. He’s probably more happy that he’s sitting inside so that he can take off his shoes instead of adhering to social norms. The arrester is a ferry boat worker. Maybe he has a reason for caring about such things. Maybe not.
A taller, skinnier version of Lou Holtz brings up the rear in this batch of ferry commuters.
Two guys wheel three empty beer kegs. One of kegs was labelled “Lagunitas.” That was a lot of recent inebriation.
The wretched screeches of the wooden chairs drag across the grey concrete floor. The screech carries an echo up and across the ferry building, and then dissipates across the cold concrete pillars above. A second screech when the patrons pull their chairs underneath them to sip their coffee and prepare to eat their breakfast.
A mom, dad, and a little tiny baby settle into the corner near the window. So much of the day ahead of them. Of course, with their little tiny baby, I suspect these particular tourists have been awake since 5:30. Their breakfast pastries seem more like lunch. Two naps, seven feedings, and 12 more hours precede a few minutes of rest for themselves. Except for this moment. The baby is quiet, and so are the parents, sitting and smiling at each other, then smiling at the little tiny baby, then smiling at each other again.
The ferry just backed out, did a K-turn, and is drifting away for it’s next batch of commuters.
The fog rolls from south to north. I’ve never noticed it do that before. Usually it tumbles and blankets the Bay from the west before settling.
A seagull stands watch atop the rigger used for roping in the ferry when it docks.
A second ferry just backed away from it’s port at Pier 1. It’s horn sounded like a nine-year old blowing through a used saxophone before the reed is wet enough.
Two women walked into Mijita, followed by a man dressed in black and orange Giants coat and hat. The women spoke in Spanish with minor enthusiasm. The man walked deliberately with his head fixed on the text message he was composing.
A blond woman with a long pony tail, white running hat, and pink shorts strode past in a jog. I suspect the cold moist air has made her legs pink too.
The seagull is gone, and the fog is lifting. A transparent orange rises just over the Berkeley hills hints that the storm might be over. The homeless man left and another ferry is arriving. More commuters. More squeaky shoes. I don’t see Lou Holtz.