I had left plenty of time. The change at Millbrae takes only about five minutes. And there was  time for that and time for BART to be late. Or so I thought. But this is the end times, or more precisely, the era of social collapse, or probably something else involving the pandemic, the Republicans and so on. In short, BART was late. There is something in me that expects the world to run fairly smoothly. The transit systems are, in fact, systems. That things work. The center holds. And so on.

But no, the subway train that was supposed to leave at 9:50 AM departed at more like 10 AM. And then we stopped at Daly City. Why? There is virtually no traffic on this western extreme of the Bay Area subway system, particularly at this time of day. But never mind. Stop we did. And there was more. When we did get to Millbrae, the train slid into a little-used platform, and I ascended on one of the very slow station elevators. Headed for the gate. Rushing, of course, hoping to just barely catch the southbound Caltrain. And guess what? The fare gate was broken. Why, one asks.

I made it out and to the second elevator down to the Caltrain platform just in time to see the 10:34 AM southbound sliding away.

Very well. I called my friend Alan and explained that I would be late for lunch. On the platform I rolled toward the sunny end. Something about Millbrae attracts fog and wind, and I was going to be there for a noisome half hour. Just ahead though, there was something blocking my way. It was a person, a body, perhaps. Hard to say, but the very pale ass of this person was exposed while he reclined face down on the southbound platform. Various young professionals, cell phones clamped to their ears, stepped over and around him. I called the transit police.

And it must be acknowledged that they were there very quickly. I returned to the scene to see the body sitting on a bench, two police interrogating him. I headed for the other end of the platform, trying to stay out of the wind.

And the trip home? Well, first, my Clipper Card wouldn’t work. This all-purpose Bay Area transit ticket indicated that I had been to the airport but not logged in, or out, properly, according to the station agent. Whatever. I got on a train for San Francisco but found that I had to actually change at the airport, the agent’s observation turning out to be prescient. In the end, a 90-minute lunch in Palo Alto burned up about six hours of my day. Well, I’m a retired guy. Who cares? I hadn’t seen Alan in three years. It was about time, COVID-19 burning up time in the most remarkable way.

And then I was home. Which is a wonderful thing. I plan to repeat the trip in about four or five decades.