I ran into one such fellow on the SF train. For the sake of the blog, I'll call him Harold. He was filthy and had a shopping cart full of bags. To add on, he had a huge red birthmark on the left side of his forehead. And out of nowhere, he began to speak loudly to no one in particular. I put my book away and took out my journal. I had to write this shit down.
"The priest don't really believe in God. The priest travels to Rome and whatnot."
I jotted down the words as quick as I could. I looked back up when he stopped. His gaze was downcast and his eyes looked empty. He was definitely in his own little world. He lifted his head back up and began to speak:
"Do good things, like pick up litter and volunteer and stuff like that...And don't do it once a week, do it everyday."
I finished writing as the train came to the next stop. I looked back up to see Harold wheeling his cart out on to the platform. I opened my journal back up and read what I had wrote. The stuff about the priest didn't really make sense, but what he said about doing good things resonated with me. Surprising the wisdom one picks up from the homeless, eh?
This was my first of many encounters with the wildly diverse BART culture. I'll continue to post shenanigans when they arise. For now, it's beddy bye time.
Good Night America.
Lazy Luke
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