On the crowded 22 Fillmore

As the 22 slowed for the light at South Van Ness, he raced to the back door, anticipating the next stop by a block. He stepped on the stairs, back up, back down and then caught his reflection in the mirror above the back door.

He tugged on his pants, firmly at the knees, and bobbed side to side, singing into the mirror and adjusting his sunglasses, making tough faces into the bubbled mirror.

It was ridiculous and darling, although those were not the descriptors he was going for.