DIARY OF A MUNI RIDER

DIARY OF A MUNI RIDER
Monday, 4:30ish, 38 Geary home from work. Got a sideways seat in the spinning middle section of the bus, like riding in a giant teacup in Disneyland except for the sunflower seed hulls in a dribbled pile on the floor. Had to walk back 4 extra blocks to get a seat before the commuting masses at Stockton & Geary descended on the vehicles like cupfuls of sperm on an unsuspecting pair of egg cells. The metaphor ends there, since the reproductive process doesn't allow the sperm to keep piling into the egg as long as they can stand behind the little white line, and the egg cell doesn't shout "There's another one right behind me."

I walked past the sideways seats in the front, the elderly/handicapped/note-from- your-doctor benches, and skipped the "guilt seats", the forward-facing single seats that look inviting until you become surrounded by a gaggle of low-income senior citizens and you can't give them that blame-the-asshole-next-to-me look, since no one is actually preventing you from relinquishing your seat to someone three or four times your age. I try to avoid the very back, since if I've escaped work early the back seats will be full of very loud elementary school would-be gang recruits who talk about the violent attacks and brainless sexcapades that may or may not be taking place in their 12-to-14 year old world. Maybe I find it depressing that their future looks so grim, or maybe I'm uncomfortably mystified by the workings of a twelve-year-old mind that would use the word "pussy" in a loud sentence in a public place.

I deserve a seat because I've got weak knees from skateboarding, and it's important to me that I'll still be able to dance when I'm 30. But mostly I deserve a seat because I've got important writing to do. Most people on muni are droning through empty, predictable lives anyway - I can see it on their defeated faces - so I'll gladly sacrifice their comfort for the contribution to society they'll make through me and the work I can accomplish while sitting down. Quite heroic of them, really.

Giving up a seat to an old person is a complex thing. If a senior citizen hobbles near you on the crowded bus and you don't jump up in the first ten seconds, you're a selfish asshole. If you give up your seat after those ten seconds, you're a selfish asshole with a nagging conscience. Before you stood up, you could pretend to be injured, heartbroken & distracted, or well-intentioned but crippled by shyness or awkward opinions about ageism or women's liberation. After ten seconds you're committed. Have a spine, asshole.

Tuesday, 7:40ish am Got a seat in the rear after squeezing through mob at front of bus. Typical - the front half of the bus is a suffocating mass of compressed humanity and there's room to raise cattle in the back. I think everyone in the back is scared of that one person in the middle of the last row of seats, the one staring into the crowd at hip-level, as if challenging any one person to block his view from up close and risk falling into his lap if the bus hits a bump. I often take this standing position, as a political statement. I shall persist in my quiet vigilance until a savior emerges to unite the commuters and inspire the masses to flock to the rear of the bus as if in a processional toward holy communion. Maybe they could serve donuts back there or something.

Wednesday, 5:20 pm A badly dressed man is standing next to the driver, engrossed in a conversation the driver obviously doesn't want to have. I can't see this kinda thing without thanking God that I have a life.

Still amazed by the number of attractive women I see on Muni. I probably scare them (I don't mean to) by staring at them until they look right at me, at which point I try to cover by continuing a quick, ficticious visual survey of the entire bus population. I go back to staring at them again in a moment, calculating the angle from which they can recognize my thirsty gaze without looking directly at me. Nothing better to do. Except for the whole pursue-writing-career, use-valuable-time-constructively thing that I keep mentioning.

Thursday, 4:30 pm 38 Geary not crowded yet. I once heard the driver tell the riders to beware of pickpockets when the "coach" becomes full. A friend had her wallet stolen out of a loose jacket pocket. Maybe it's a female thing - I can't function if I don't feel my wallet in my right rear pocket. I feel cold and exposed when I take it out, like a wallet-sized hole has been cut out of the seat of my pants. For that moment, I'm naked and ashamed. I've never had my wallet stolen.

I ride the cable cars when I can. I like them because of their character, the rattle they give as they rail through the open wind. But mostly I ride them because they're the only truly dangerous tourist attraction in North America. I stand at the front to see the passing city. Screw the tourists whose view is blocked. I live here and I own a fast pass. Let them buy the video.

Friday, 7:30ish am The woman in front of me is having a conversation with nobody, discussing her relatives' lives (I assume they're her relatives) and the fact that her job won't allow her to dress as "sexy" as the other women getting on the bus. I don't know why she'd speak without an intended listening audience, but perhaps I'm no less guilty, writing every day of my life in a journal that no one reads. The fact that my words are eternally preserved and hers are heard by an SRO audience of annoyed commuters and then forever lost probably gives her a vital in-the-moment artistic thrill. Suddenly I doubt my courage as a creator and performer. She's talking about Michael Landon's children and I'm rethinking my career choices. She moves me.

Friday, 4:35 pm I really don't need a seat that badly, but I have my reasons. I probably have flat feet or something. Maybe I stand too much. My legs hurt. And I've always got a letter to write or a book to read or something else to do while my fellow urbanite commuters languish in transit between banalities. Is it really my illusion that most people aren't trying to build toward the career they really want, in their "free" time? I waste 8 hours a day paying the bills, doing a job that doesn't thrill me. That leaves 16 hours to sleep, eat, and claw my way to a creative, fulfilling financial independence. I've got shit to do! Just because the bus ride is almost too shaky for writing doesn't mean I'm going to give up a good 15 minutes' worth of scratching and clawing toward a fulfilling life just so some putz can reward his faithful, obedient backpack with a seat of its own.

I get a special thrill from taking the inside seat next to one of those assholes who take the outside seat on an empty two-person bench. They've selfishly claimed more than they deserve and I relish the opportunity to self-righteously stumble over them to claim the window in the name of Democracy. I should start handing out flyers.

Friday (OK, Saturday), 1 am 38 Geary home from way cool wonderful Jonathan Richman concert. The world doesn't seem as gloomy now. Everyone peaceful, like five-year-olds sleeping on the drive home from a late movie. Good concert.

Bus stopped and nobody got on or off. Driver shouted at the guy nearest the door to get out. All my life I've feared pulling the chain at the wrong time and being forced off the bus as a scapegoat. "The bus has stopped for your mistake! Accept your pennance!" I was never sure that drivers would be so cruelly strict until now. The man looked cold and alone as the great vehicle pulled away and left him in the night.

The triumphant sperm storms past millions of others into a single seat in the egg cell, blind to the vast journey that lies ahead. The young writer who can't afford a taxi claims a window seat on the 38 and watches the prostitutes on Geary. The ride becomes a familiar blur as the years pass. The stops are frequent, the riders annoying. Close your eyes and you'll miss your stop.

ej@templeofdominoes dot com

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