Berkeley Shuttlestop

I don't need to be fifteen minutes away to feel Judy Butler. I wonder if she ever went to the Subway across from the hot dog stand, the American Apparel. I wonder if she would stoop so low as to be one of the everyday people she's always fighting for.

There's a reunion of some sort happening today. Kids in their early thirties are dressed like Hollywood, lacking cigarette holders and the charm that comes with them. They're laughing about how cold it is, waiting for some bus to take the load of them somewhere, to some ball, to some fancy restaurant. A caricature homeless man walks unashamed through the herd of decorated cattle. "Down with Corporatism!" He yells, throat swollen, unsanitized. "Down with fuckers with money! Fuck you! Fuck you!"

They ignore him, or try to. They check their phones. They glance, understand enough to let him pass. They continue making polite noises, touching each other's arms politely, smiling in polite, unassuming ways. The bus appears, silent and stoic. It's bright with tinted windows, like a tall limousine. "Graduates from the law school ten years back," someone informed me when I asked. Neither of us mentions the homeless man.

Someone gave him enough change throughout his busy day to buy a Desi dog. I can almost smell the relish in his beard. The kids are gone as he sits to noisily munch. The sky is preparing for sunset, lining up the clouds just so. The pattern that forms is uniform, consistent. The girl sitting next to me is making her own clouds. I fail to notice my own. The shuttle is late, but its warmth is welcome.