Sunday, August 13, 2006
Fighting Traffic
Greetings from the Poconos, where I’m having a great time. Zach is enjoying the family and the swimming pool, and I’ve gotten some nice photos and some killer brats and cheesesteaks. I may soon have something relevant to say about all this idyllic wonderfulness but I’m finding it harder and harder to get the time to organize my thoughts into something worth writing out, much less reading. SO, instead of letting a whole freaking week go by without a post, I figgered I’d just share some pre-written-out thoughts. And, as luck would have it, I have some, so here they are:
My first thought, when my bus pulled up, was that this was an unusually attractive bus driver. She had on her Muni browns and her traffic face, but nonetheless she was cute: petite, with high cheekbones and large expressive eyes. “Hmm,” I thought as I flashed my pass and boarded the big articulated bus, “cute driver.” I don’t believe she so much as glanced at me as I trudged past her toward my usual seat.
I’m ashamed to admit that my next thought was, “They’re gonna take advantage. They’re gonna hand her cute ass back to her.” As I took my seat I berated myself: she’s a professional, I reminded me. She wouldn’t have been assigned this route if she couldn’t handle it. Don’t worry about her ass. I’m sure it is, and will continue to be, just fine.
I’d boarded at the second stop on the line. By the fifth the seats were all occupado and the aisle was filling up. From the square all the way out to Diviz, every stop was choked with folk seeking passage and the mob on board churned each time the doors opened as people struggled like salmon for exits and newly-vacated seats. I sat in my special select spot a little less than halfway back, bobbing my head to the tunes in my ears and splitting my attention between my notebook and the sea of humanity ebbing and flowing around me. Our hot little bus driver was weaving through tight traffic, managing the stops, doing a great job. I’d sold her short. Lesson learned.
The bus was already pretty crowded when all those middle school kids got on at Larkin. It was a group of seven or twelve or so; they boarded at all three doors at once with howling laughter and skewed ballcaps and baggy trousers, tumbling raucously to the back of the bus - which suddenly seemed much more crowded than it even was.
It happened again at Van Ness: a whole passel of yutes loaded in at all three doors, shoving each other and shouting insults that were probably good-natured but were definitely obscene. Some settled in around me and some made space for themselves a little further back. One who sat adjacent to me seemed to be the kingpin - he must have been six foot, 220, with guarded eyes and an impassive mien; his friends who sat and stood around him seemed tiny and positively hyperactive by contrast. The ambient noise level instantly rose high enough to overwhelm the music from my earbuds. I felt like I’d better start paying closer attention.
An office-weary young woman sitting across from me in a severely tailored suit knit her brow with disapproval at the rowdies who suddenly surrounded us, rummaging in her purse for a pack of gum. As she discreetly pulled out a stick, one of the kids leapt forward, telling her to give him one too. She tensed up visibly but did the courteous and sensible thing—she proffered the pack. He steadied her grip by taking her hand in his, and selected a stick. This prompted two of his noisy cohorts to shout to him that they wanted some of this woman’s gum as well. He grinned and complied, pulled two more sticks from the suddenly-depleted pack.
Without acknowledging his benefactrix, he started to head over to his other buddies further back in the bus. The two kids who’d told him to take extra for them got agitated and tried to slap him down or get the gum from him. He twisted away, hollering, bumping other passengers as he tried to escape. The other kids knocked his ill-gotten gum to the floor of the bus. He picked up a stick, now without its wrapper, and threw it at them. They fought over the remaining gumlitter till all the pieces had been soiled and wasted and hurled. Then they laughed, loudly. The big kid next to me did not join them. Neither did any of the rest of us, though we glanced to each other in nervous acknowledgment of the rapidly-deteriorating situation. Things were getting out of control.
The bus was pulling away at Fillmore and the many folk who’d just boarded were trying to find room to settle in among the other commuters and the two juvenile posses. The kids were jumping into and out of and over seats, playing grabass, throwing garbage out the windows and shouting at each other, when suddenly there was a big commotion. Even relative to the prior chaos, this seemed pretty disruptive. The whole second gang of kids rushed toward the rear of the bus. The first group was all standing already and the pushing back and forth between them quickly grew frantic.
One of the black kids was flailing; his buddies were all over him, pulling him away from the asian kids, who had formed a human shield and started moving up the bus. Just as we reached the stop at Diviz the black kids got this one friend of theirs who was really going batshit down into the doorwell. The shouting on both sides jumped suddenly into a much higher gear. The doors opened and the mass of black kids forced the one dude off the bus; he was thrashing out and resisting with everything he had, but once they got him to the sidewalk they all ran like chickens. Even the big one.
Afterwards the bus felt palpably roomier and quieter, but the asian kids in the back were still all standing in a protective huddle and occasionally shouting out. Somebody was being cursed; something was missing, or broken. The bus was just sitting at the stop, doors open. Eventually one of the kids from the rear started walking up toward the driver. He had the lowered brow and baggy chic of a gangsta, but in his eyes I immediately saw that he was scared and embarrassed. He definitely wasn’t playing grabass like before.
He huddled with the cute little driver for a few moments. He pointed back into the bus; they both peered around for a peek so we all turned to look too. The huddle had broken up a little. One kid in the back of the pack struggled to look cool and relaxed as blood poured from his mouth and down the front of his shirt. He was pale and sweaty and seemed very uncomfortable. Word filtered back—he had lost a tooth in the scuffle, and they couldn’t find it. The dude from up front came walking back again, not sauntering or sashaying but just sort of regular walking. In a flat, polite voice he apologized to random people down the aisle without really making eye contact. I asked him as he passed what had happened. Avoiding my gaze, he replied: “guess dude wanted to play wi’hiz playstat’n. dude didn’ wanna share. tha’s when they decided to fight.” He slunk as he spoke, so by the time he was done talking he was well down the aisle past me. After all, his cousin in the back was still bleeding. He rejoined his friends and they all sat down together in attitudes of unfeigned resignation.
The bus driver’s voice crackled across overamplified speakers. She didn’t sound little or cute—she sounded pissed. “This bus ain’t goin’ nowheah,” she announced coldly. “Police have been called. Y’all gotta get off this bus. This was th’last limited. There’s a reguluh comin’ up ‘bout five minutes behin’ me.”
We’d expected this announcement so we quickly gathered our things and got up, accepting our mass exodus from the stilled bus down onto an abruptly real curbside with commendable goodwill and fortitude. That guy drooling blood down his chest had priority. We were willing to live with this minor inconvenience, in light of his disfigurement.
Thus I found myself walking away from the young cute bus driver, who couldn’t possibly have done anything to stop what had happened, no matter who she might have been. Those little thugs were bound to get into a fight—among themselves, if not with each other. They just happened to get to each other on her bus. She didn’t make any more impression on them than I had made on her. But I’ll tell you what: I ride that line most every day, morning and evening. I know the route, the riders, and the drivers. The drivers do tend to have regular routes—if I’ve seen them once, most likely I’ve seen them a dozen times at least: but I’ve never seen that cute bus driver drive my outbound 38 again.
Refreshing, eh wot? Well I enjoyed it. And now it’s time to pull on my natation knickers, grab my flotation baby, and soak up some chlorine and happiness. Hope your weekend is relaxing, too.