Practice

I see lots of people. Every day, everywhere. This is what’s good about working in San Francisco while broke. You won’t find free parking. You’ll find trains, buses, and people.

This time a young woman. Twenty-one or so. She bounded down from the upper level of the train to stand near the exit doors. There were a few of us there already. People who burst out in front or linger until the end. A preference for either side of the curve.

She was slight, lithe. Eager in a bouncy way. Flat blonde hair, track jacket and jeans. Most notable was a pair of black lace-up Chucks that extended to mid-calf. She turned around just after she had arrived to raise her foot onto a step and tighten the laces on her shoes. Whether from ritual or necessity, I couldn’t tell.

She looked out at the doors on both sides, as I did. You don’t know which is the exit until you’re right on top of the station. It’s a gamble to stake a claim on one door. That was my general approach, and I had a decent average. She chose to remain in the middle and react to the exit when it became certain. Like a caged animal, she paced a couple steps between the two. She needed off.

It was a long wait. My gamble didn’t pay off and I was stuck at the back of the lead group. She naturally moved to the front. It was clear she was the only one about to explode.

The door opened. She was yards ahead of me in a few seconds. I know nothing of form, but hers was narrow and efficient if I ever saw it. I walked along and caught the final glimpse of her when I walked toward the station exit. She was already at the street, running between traffic. Going God knows where and getting there quick. Just running.

It must be a hell of an experience to run. To be made of limbs and motion. Until then, it’d never seemed of value.