Monday morning. Set up by the BART exit gates is a string quartet, smiling that smile only a chin on a violin can make. A few stop and listen. I take my earphones off and let the booming cello guide me up the escalator. Street level. Muddled sounds of megaphone. Not a Bible-thumper but a Lefty. He's implicating the suits as they hustle past him, those speedy little wing tips. Some seem confused a/o annoyed. Some don't even blink. I blink a few times then duck my head as I pass through the threshold of the elevator.


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