A presumably stoned on drugs, high 20-something backpack guy sat on the bus inbetween Brittney and me this morning on our way to work. Suddenly, as we're driving through the Financial District, he says something along the stoned on drugs, high lines of "Is this 26?"
Brittney replied, "The 26th bus? Or 26th Street?"
And I, because he was not unattractive and I am very nosey, dove in and said, "Are you trying to go to 26th Street? You're going in the wrong direction?"
He was 27-ish with a huge backpack strapped to him like we were on Eurorail and not the 12, and he stared at us, more bemused than confused. I'm sure he saw cartoon barn animals floating through the air in between the lemmings with the office jobs.
He finally said, "26. I'm trying to get to the 1."
I fought to keep my perky tone and asked, "Where are you trying to go?"
"Highway 1. Well, I'm really going to Los Angeles."
Of course you are. Which is why you're on the 12 Muni at 9am going north through the SAN FRANCISCO'S Financial District.
I decided to tell him to backtrack and go down to Market, getting on the N Judah, which I know goes to the beach, where Highway 1 is, and where apparently this backpacker expects to be picked up in the hippie van from Forrest Gump.
All of this information was met with a blank stare while he nodded and repeated his plans to take Highway 1 to LA. And I felt how my mother feels when I offer some sort of vague but major plan. She tries to hide her frustration while offering me highly specific options and concrete ways to solve my dilemna, while I'm like, "Relax, lady. Take it easy. Everything is groovy..."