The F Line

by Scot Young

Last night I rode the late night bus down Market. The tourists and drag queens have all but deserted this line by now. I was just a passenger being transported to nowhere with people who ask for nothing and expected less. In the back seat, an old woman dressed in layers of mission clothes chanted a nursery rhyme and rocked gently back and forth, afraid to go to sleep. The ancient ninja in faded black with a worn frame and tired eyes fought the spirits with slow movements of tai chi, conquering them in mid-air, then bowing to nobody. At Powell, I got off knowing I was almost home and they weren't really any crazier than anyone else.


Scot Young sometimes just likes to ride the bus.