It was cold enough for my cat to love me last night. She was lying against my outstretched arm and using one of my fingernails as a place to scratch her chin. Lately, she has been down at the foot of the bed or under it, venturing into the kitchen occasionally to have a bite of food or take a dump in the vicinity of the litter box. She’s sixteen and a half, and more or less done with the world.
I know the feeling.
My alarm went off at its usual 5:45 and it was time to start. There was no drinking last night to hobble me this morning so I was able to shower, shave, and get dressed with a minimum of groaning. I gave Becca a goodbye kiss and called my cat a little bitch, taking care not to reverse the two.
It was 43F when I left the house this morning, cold weather unless you’re used to real winters. I am not. I zipped up my jacket, thrust my hands into my pockets, and marched off toward Muddy’s for my hot coffee and a toasted bagel.
I turned the corner from 24th onto Valencia St. and saw the lights in Muddy’s was off and the gate was shut. There was a sign in the window saying that in observance of President’s Day, they would not be opening until 7 am. Crap.
It was 6:23 and I didn’t fancy the idea of trudging to the bus stop and waiting in the cold for the next 25 minutes. Besides, I needed coffee. I walked back to 24th St. and headed in the direction of BART.
There was a cafe right next to the station. The coffee was passable, but I knew from a previous visit that they had no bagels. When I asked, the barista shook his head and gestured me toward an assortment of gluten-free inedibles. I decided not to go through that again.
Fortunately, Cafe La Boheme across the street was open as well. They would have bagels. In fact, they might have a whole variety of things. Unlike Muddy’s, the menu board was one of a full eatery. I didn’t know what was available at that hour though a bagel was a safe bet.
I went in and got a large coffee and a garlic bagel with cream cheese. I like Cafe La Boheme and regret not going there more often. There were only three customers including me at the time, but the regulars would drift in eventually and they are what give the place its character.
It’s an old-style coffee house with more books open than laptops and there are scruffy seniors with hair in their ears who play chess where a piece is moved about once every hour. It’s the kind of establishment that is quickly disappearing from San Francisco and eventually from the world.
After finishing my bagel, I headed to the stop at 26th and Valencia. The bus arrived more or less on time, but with a different driver. The regular guy was probably on vacation. It seemed everyone but me had the day off. I knew this wasn’t true, but I grumbled about the injustice of it all anyway.
Facebook is my go-to source for what people say when they want to sound like everybody else. My newsfeed has been awash with stuff about how on this President’s Day, folks were going to celebrate 44 out of 45 because Trump sucks. I don’t like him either, but am unwilling to pretend the others were all peachy keen. But if you really want to honor the legacy of James Buchanan, far be it for me to stop you.
So when I said it’s “Not My President’s Day,” it’s not an expression of political solidarity. I was ticked I had to go to work. I was also not happy about having to go to the bathroom, a feeling that kicked in as I started writing this blog entry on the bus. Fortunately, the Privilegemobile has a restroom. Unfortunately, someone removed the toilet seat a couple of weeks ago. I knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant, but there business to be taken care before I could concentrate on anything else.
I was pleasantly surprised to find the toilet to be reasonably clean. With the seat gone, I was afraid that greenlight people pissing all over everything. I spread some toilet paper around the outside of the bowl and sat myself down.
I had my phone with me so I read about the recent school shooting in Florida. The CNN site had an article about the victims. They all seemed like decent folks though even if any of them were assholes, I doubt that it would have been reported.
Also, I disagree with those who insist the press concentrate on the victims and not the perpetrator when covering mass murders. I get the appeal of depriving killers their fame, but they are the ones you look to when trying to understand the crime. The people killed are tragic, but not terribly elucidating.
After I finished, stood up and hit the black flush button. Blue water spiraled the bowl and I wished my former fellow traveler farewell as it disappeared from view.
It was at that moment the bus hit a bump and the lavatory door flew open. I quickly slid it shut and relatched it. It was unlikely anyone saw me as the seats all face forward. Still, it was possible. My underwear was up, but my pants were around my knees. The sight of that could be triggering, but my Stars and Stripes boxers kept my patriotism beyond question.
At least there was that. With no traffic to hold it back, the bus raced southward. I returned to my seat and hunkered down.