Transit

Sleepy headed guy in a black hooded sweatshirt. He stands in the shelter out of the wet. On his neck, a lipstick kiss tattoo, pinkish red, very real if a little too big. As I’m trying to figure out what color that is, exactly, the bus arrives, he flips up his hood, and I can’t see the kiss anymore.
“Scuse me, but can you show me how to text?” It’s the guy in the seat behind me. He’s wearing a zebra striped do-rag, he smells of cigarettes. “I’m tryna send a photo to this number here” — he unfolds a piece of paper — “but I can’t figure it out.” I check the guy out, he’s rough but his vibe isn’t creepy, plus, he’s got the look of someone completely flustered by technology. He shows me the photo — a tiny snapshot of a stocky woman holding up a cellphone in front of a mirror, the flash reflected in the glass. I relax. “Hand me your phone,” I say, and I scroll through the options until I figure out what’s happening. “Okay, let’s start at the beginning, go to the photo…” We talk through it, I have him drive, after all, it’s his phone, and then there’s some silence. “I got it!” he says. “I’m too old for this! I’m 52 and I just got this phone and when I see those teenagers texting like crazy, well…”
As I’m crossing the street, a very tall man is crossing in the other direction. He is wearing a spectacular toupee, the color nothing like the graying hair around his ears. It looks like he has a guinea pig on his head.

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