Subway Log

I am waiting in the Berkeley BART, around midnight. This older man (short white ponytail under a faded purple baseball cap, white beard, gold-rimed eyeglasses, grey windbreaker, grey pants, large backpack) sits down next to me on the bench, but facing the other way and he flips through the discarded newspaper . . .
"Did you go to the Solano Stroll yesterday?"
"Um, no."
"You know where Solano is, right?"
"Oh yeah, in Albany."
"Albany-Berkeley. It was great. You would have loved it. A great number of townspeople, jugglers, strollers about. Great."
"It was really nice. What we need to do is get rid of the fucking cars. All the fucking cars."
"That is true."
"They're just a fucking mess. No one needs cars, they should walk. And bike."
"No argument here."
He belches repeatedly as he walks down the platform. He comes back, too soon.
"Did you see a movie? tonight?"
"Um, yeah."
"What movie?"
"For a Few Dollars More."
"For a Few Dollars More."
"A Fistfull of Dollars."
"Oh. A Spaghetti Western."
"Yeah, Sergio Leone directing Clint Eastwood."
"I saw The Art of War. Second time. You seen it yet? Great movie."
"Quite a recommendation, to talk to someone who has seen it twice."
"Yeah. What do you do for work?"
"I have an office job."
"I'm a consultant."
"What's your name?"
"(name changed to protect the innocent)"
"Mine's Daniel."
"Nice to meet you."
"When's your birthday?"
"April what?"
"I'm Taurus too. May ninth."
The distinguished moves on to accost another loiterer.
Presently I hear "Where's the fucking Richmond train?"