I think, in my daily wanderings and doings; they always wanted every detail. I told them about Bill Timn, the Civic Neighborhoods Project, and his job. I thought they laughed too long.

that here!" laughed Dennis.

"Oh geez, Bill, he took you for a ride! There's nothing like

"They pay me to dress up like a junior law partner and ride

BART across the bay and back, to reassure folks that there's no problem with the Bay Area economy!" piped Ford, a junior law partner, and slapped his knee.

"Yeah, I guess so," I said. "He was pretty bizarre." | didn't really want to relinquish my partial belief in the other Bill, but my friends were probably right.

"Now just a minute, you guys," said Beatrice from the rocker. "I've lived in the city ten years- longer than either of you," she looked at Ford and Dennis, then back to me. "I've seen almost everything! And things I doubted, I've seen. I, for One, will at least say, Bill, that it isn't impossible."

We all laughed and laughed about it. On the way to the movie later, Ford assigned us all City Jobs- I, of course, was the Naive Visiting Yank-and assured us our checks would be in the mail on Monday.

The next thing I knew I had only Monday and Tuesday remaining of my stay. I spent Monday in Golden Gate Park, walking from the Hall of Flowers to the Aquarium to the DeYoung Museum, then over to Strawberry Hill that grows up out of Stowe Lake. The next day, my last, would be predominantly taken up with visiting an elderly uncle and aunt, who had just returned to town; we were to have lunch. They live on Villa Terrace, just off Twin Peaks, a couple of miles almost directly south of Ford and Beatrice's place where I was staying.

Tuesday morning I plotted my bus ride and set out al eleven. The buses in San Francisco are legendary- their drivers are indisputably the masters of the roads; a cab driver had cautioned me on arrival, “Don’t mess with the bus driver!” The buses are punctual, usually full, and wait for no

one. I boarded my bus, finding a seat to myself about three-quarters back, where I could see who came and went, both on the bus and in the street. I knew I had to transfer at Frederick and Ashbury, so I also had to keep and eye on the street signs.

The bus filled as we progressed, and as I sat regarding the passengers, I started to see them through the eyes of not the now-experienced San Francisco visitor, but of the Yank, already back home and at work. I kept thinking, this is the quintessential San Francisco bus ride, as my bus filled with one exemplar after another. There was a small, stooped, rounded Chinese couple; a huge black woman dressed in cook's white; two young men, smartly dressed, who seemed interested only in each other to the complete exclusion of all else; three look-alike teenaged girls in tights and leotards under their skirts; a leather-clad (pants, jacket, hat) spindly guy who slunk to the back seat and looked at everyone, making me think he was sizing us up for robbery; and finally a family-father, mother, and young daughter, and I knew these last were tourists. While all the other passengers read or looked passively out the windows, the family's heads swung from one side of the street to the other, like spectators at a tennis match who didn't want to miss a single stroke. The child asked, "Now is this a cable car, Daddy?" I was still being careful to watch the street names-Oak, Page, Haight: we pulled over for more passengers, and I realized we were at that once celebrated intersection of Haight and Ashbury. The fabled corner. I heard the mother and little girl giggle-they were in the seat just ahead of mine, and saw the mother nudge the father. I followed their interest and saw three scruffy, pony-tailed hippies land in the last vacant seat, just across the aisle from the family.

At least half the bus could have clearly heard what the three said. "Oh man, like did you dig? He was askin' way too much for that lid! Where could we get the bread for that grass, man?" Then another said, "Hey, man, like ya know, we got

three hits-a Blue Dot left. Les drop those Dots and think a the grass later. Hey, some other time!" Their speech was a slow. motion cavalcade of diphthonged vowels. "Far out," said the third.

I was behind them and hadn't seen their faces, but Friday at the BurgerDome came rushing back. I listened and watched, and tried not to laugh. The family in front of me were staring open-mouthed.

"Hey, so let's do it!" one was saying. Was the voice familiar? I couldn't tell.

Two more stops and it was Frederick; I had to get off, but I didn't want to; I hadn't seen their faces yet. Out on the street I stared at the bus. Just as it was pulling away from the curb, someone leaned out a window. It was, as I knew it would be, Bill Timn. The same turquoise blue eyes, but there was no turban-like hat to conceal his bush of kinky, fly-away blond hair.

"Peace, Jonathan!" he called, smiling, and flipping up index and middle fingers. He held his arm straight out, the peace sign bobbing along out the window. I watched until it was out of sight.

"Hey! You waiting for this bus, fella?" called the bus driver.

"This number fifty-seven!"

"Yes, thanks!" I said, scrambling to board before he drove

off.