I was on the forty-five headed south on Stockton when the bus stopped in heavy traffic. Outside of a small grocery store in Chinatown, an old man struggled as he moved past the store front as quickly as gridlocked cars. He took a step forward and paused with a heavy sigh that lifted his shoulders up and knocked his chin down towards his chest.
The old Asian man repeated his step, his sigh, and his nod before reaching a tall light post. He looked the post up and down, and back up again before rotating his fragile frame as slowly as it had arrived. Unlike the tourists, tragically lost while frantically looking for Lombard Street, or the little boys, quickly skating by in Giants hats with Red Vines dangling from their mouths, the man was in no rush.
He released his breath and leaned against the post, quite pleased with himself. Now, with his back towards my window, the traffic cleared and my bus moved on.
I'll be back to visit. Maybe he'll still be there.
