Looking at the guy beside the bus stop shelter across from the 65th Street light rail station I couldn't shake the image of Woody Allen in his younger years. The guy was the same slight build, a mousy little man.
He was far enough away that I couldn't make out more than his general appearance. He wore jeans and a white shirt with writing in red across the shoulders and in the middle of the back. He wore thick glasses and a blue ball cap pulled down. His clothes looked freshly laundered.
The guy would have been completely unremarkable except for the way he shook both hands above his head with middle fingers extended while screaming profanities at the sidewalk in front of him. Occasionally, he would pause and look up as if to see if anyone noticed, and then he would continue. When he finally became exhausted by his exertion he lowered his arms and leaned against the side of the bus shelter. But then he turned and banged his fists on the glass wall of the shelter with enough force to shake the structure.
I was happy to be too far away to discern more than the general tenor of his complaint. A couple of women were sitting in the bus shelter, unmoved. A man walked to the other side of the bus stop and away from the guy, shaking his head. A few people at the light rail station with me watched.
The cycle of screaming, exhaustion, pounding, screaming, exhaustion, pounding continued until my train arrived. As I left for downtown, the man was still at the bus stop waiting for Sacramento Regional Transit to pick him up.