Friday, February 14, 2003

I came down into the

I came down into the station in trenchcoat, cap, headphones, boots and scowl.  My ‘transit face.’ But he picked me out right away.  His eyes were wide and clear, and his clothes - sturdy, utilitarian - were nonetheless clean and in good repair.  He carried a boombox of modest dimensions, to which he listened discretely through headphones.  He politely called me over.  “Excuse me, do you know about these BART trains?” “Some.” “Do you know how to get to the McArthur Station?  Do you take the Richmond train?” “That’ll do.” “So it’s the Richmond train.  Not Dublin.” “No, not Dublin nor Fremont.” “Thanks.  Thanks very much.  And I just want you to know - I asked that guy over at the counter and he completely ignored me.  Like I wasn’t there.” His eyes burned.  He was gentle but intense.  “So thank you for stopping.  I really appreciate it.  What that guy did back there, that’ll come back to him.  The universe remembers.” “Yeah.  I’m glad to help.  So long.”

I walked to another part of the landing, fully enscowled.  I turned back, looked at him sitting alone on the concrete bench.  I considered: he’d been ignored, I knew in my heart, by that other guy, because he’s black.  He’s articulate, courteous, clean, and yet he has been rendered nonexistent because of his skin color.  In this city.  Today.  I walked back to him.  “You can take the Bay Point line too.  Just not Fremont or Dublin.  Anything else.” His face beamed.  I shrivelled inside.