But there's this weird guy I've been noticing lately on the 67F bus now and then. He is always mumbling to himself. Sometimes he has napkins, from McDonald's or somewhere, I suppose, and scribbles crazy things on them with a cheap-looking ball-point, staring alternately at the ceiling of the bus, and out the window. Once it wasn't napkins, but scraps of paper, torn into little rectangles, each about the size as old library card-catalog cards, maybe a little smaller. In any event, when he writes, his bits of napkin or paper or whatever get thrown all over the seats next to him. They are invariably empty because the, uh, smell. And, well, nobody wants to sit next to the guy talking to himself anyway.
It's strange how intensely purposeful he seems, though, moving his scraps and notes around, adding a thought here, striking this one out, putting these five in a pile.
