About half way through my run, I am waiting to cross across the street from the mission. Bums are thick with the mission on one side of ponce and the park on the other side.
I ran up, kicked the button to cross the street even though I know that most of them are disabled in the big city, and a bum floated up and gave me an open-mouthed stare. He swelled up, drawing breath. I was ready to deck him if he got squirrely.
“Boy!” he bark wheezed, “You look just like George Bush, n–” and he called me a racist perjorative. The light changed, so I could run some more.
“Gotcha!” I said over my shoulder, and jogged across the street into the park.
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