Bus Report #315
After a relatively calm weekend on MUNI It's business as usual on the 38 and the 22.
How I long for Saturday, my packed 38 Geary taking no prisoners and barreling down the street to get me to my class off of Polk Street.... Ah... Good times...
Or Sunday, when I waited 25 minutes for a 2 Clement, but then got a decent seat and a chance to see the cherry blossom festival even though I had no desire to go to it.
Those were the days.
Yesterday I left the house at my usual time, and went out to wait for the 38. I said good morning to the couple who only ever take the bus two stops, and scowled as the bus flagger tried, unsuccessfully as always, to flag down a Limited.
Our bus came and I got a seat across from a kid dressed head to toe in black, with black steel-toed boots, and purple sunglasses. It was an interesting look. It suited him, somehow.
At Fillmore I waited for the 22, bookended by the guy who camps in the bus shelter, who was smoking, and the annoying day laborer guy who always has to stand near me, who was also smoking.
Let me be clear that I was there first, that if they had been there first and already smoking, I would have just stood elsewhere.
But in principle, THEY should not have started smoking right near me when I was there first. It's just rude.
So I coughed and sputtered and shot them looks of death.
Nothing happened.
The bus came (late! Late!) and I sat next to the woman with the designer handbags.
An uneventful ride, though I was a little later than I like to be to work.
Last night I had to go to Noe Valley to meet up with B, E and M.
I hopped on a 33 Stanyan and got a seat near the window, after having to Mount-Everest-scale a stubborn woman who would not move and would not move her rolly-backpack.
She got out at Mission and a large man got on.
"Please don't sit next to me," I thought, because he would probably squish me to death.
Of course, he sat right next to me, squishing me against the window (dangerously close to a half-eaten lollipop).
Then he did something so gross, I might need therapy.
He rummaged around in his bag and pulled out a plastic bag from a clothing store that rhymes with Mold Davy.
Inside that bag, he had a paper-wrapped taco from everyone's favorite (and here I am being sarcastic) taco joint, a place that rhymes with Smack In a Box.
A Smack In a Box taco in the Mission, the horror!
Also, it was a COLD, OLD taco. I know because it was half eaten already, as though he had taken a few bites and then saved the rest for later.
Ew. Ugh. Shiver. Shudder.
He squeezed Smack In a Box 'taco' sauce on it from a condiment packet and chowed down.
I felt queasy, smelling the no-longer-crispy corn shell, seeing the flecks of taco on his shirt.
I couldn't take it.
I pulled the signaller and when the bus pulled onto 18th I motioned that I was getting out.
He wasn't too thrilled to have his dining experience interrupted, but I didn't care.
I got the hell outta there.
This morning I was maybe a minute late for the 38 Geary, but that was okay.
Said hi to the couple who only ever go two stops, made fun of the bus flagger (she's got to stop with the L flagging, it's so stupid, it kills me!) and felt good. I was listening to this week's episode of the best radio show in the world and I was pretty happy.
Got on the bus, read the headlines in the Exshaminer (worse than the Worst Daily Newspaper on the Planet, if you can believe that), and all was well with the world.
When I got to Fillmore, I was the only person there other than the camper. He was wrapped up in a blanket, and was going through two plastic bags full of scraps of paper. Very important scraps, by the looks of things.
No bus came.
People started to arrive: the sullen sewing lady, some kids, the Puerto Rico guy, a man in a nice business suit, and some other folks.
No bus came.
The dreadlocked dental technician came, and we greeted each other like long-lost friends.
No bus came.
I looked at my watch. I had been waiting for 25 minutes.
Three 3 Jacksons went by. Five 22 Fillmores passed in the opposite direction.
Nada.
I hailed a cab.
I meant to get a receipt but I forgot.
I was planning to send the bill to MUNI.
Next time, I guess.
How I long for Saturday, my packed 38 Geary taking no prisoners and barreling down the street to get me to my class off of Polk Street.... Ah... Good times...
Or Sunday, when I waited 25 minutes for a 2 Clement, but then got a decent seat and a chance to see the cherry blossom festival even though I had no desire to go to it.
Those were the days.
Yesterday I left the house at my usual time, and went out to wait for the 38. I said good morning to the couple who only ever take the bus two stops, and scowled as the bus flagger tried, unsuccessfully as always, to flag down a Limited.
Our bus came and I got a seat across from a kid dressed head to toe in black, with black steel-toed boots, and purple sunglasses. It was an interesting look. It suited him, somehow.
At Fillmore I waited for the 22, bookended by the guy who camps in the bus shelter, who was smoking, and the annoying day laborer guy who always has to stand near me, who was also smoking.
Let me be clear that I was there first, that if they had been there first and already smoking, I would have just stood elsewhere.
But in principle, THEY should not have started smoking right near me when I was there first. It's just rude.
So I coughed and sputtered and shot them looks of death.
Nothing happened.
The bus came (late! Late!) and I sat next to the woman with the designer handbags.
An uneventful ride, though I was a little later than I like to be to work.
Last night I had to go to Noe Valley to meet up with B, E and M.
I hopped on a 33 Stanyan and got a seat near the window, after having to Mount-Everest-scale a stubborn woman who would not move and would not move her rolly-backpack.
She got out at Mission and a large man got on.
"Please don't sit next to me," I thought, because he would probably squish me to death.
Of course, he sat right next to me, squishing me against the window (dangerously close to a half-eaten lollipop).
Then he did something so gross, I might need therapy.
He rummaged around in his bag and pulled out a plastic bag from a clothing store that rhymes with Mold Davy.
Inside that bag, he had a paper-wrapped taco from everyone's favorite (and here I am being sarcastic) taco joint, a place that rhymes with Smack In a Box.
A Smack In a Box taco in the Mission, the horror!
Also, it was a COLD, OLD taco. I know because it was half eaten already, as though he had taken a few bites and then saved the rest for later.
Ew. Ugh. Shiver. Shudder.
He squeezed Smack In a Box 'taco' sauce on it from a condiment packet and chowed down.
I felt queasy, smelling the no-longer-crispy corn shell, seeing the flecks of taco on his shirt.
I couldn't take it.
I pulled the signaller and when the bus pulled onto 18th I motioned that I was getting out.
He wasn't too thrilled to have his dining experience interrupted, but I didn't care.
I got the hell outta there.
This morning I was maybe a minute late for the 38 Geary, but that was okay.
Said hi to the couple who only ever go two stops, made fun of the bus flagger (she's got to stop with the L flagging, it's so stupid, it kills me!) and felt good. I was listening to this week's episode of the best radio show in the world and I was pretty happy.
Got on the bus, read the headlines in the Exshaminer (worse than the Worst Daily Newspaper on the Planet, if you can believe that), and all was well with the world.
When I got to Fillmore, I was the only person there other than the camper. He was wrapped up in a blanket, and was going through two plastic bags full of scraps of paper. Very important scraps, by the looks of things.
No bus came.
People started to arrive: the sullen sewing lady, some kids, the Puerto Rico guy, a man in a nice business suit, and some other folks.
No bus came.
The dreadlocked dental technician came, and we greeted each other like long-lost friends.
No bus came.
I looked at my watch. I had been waiting for 25 minutes.
Three 3 Jacksons went by. Five 22 Fillmores passed in the opposite direction.
Nada.
I hailed a cab.
I meant to get a receipt but I forgot.
I was planning to send the bill to MUNI.
Next time, I guess.
posted by Rachel at 10:55 AM
2 Comments:
Oh there are so many things...
1) I am excited for the day when you finally snap and your eyes pop out of your head like Mr. DeMartino from Daria and you go over to the L Flagger and yank her arm down to her side. So satisfying!
2) I was eating when I read about J-Box man. I had to stop. Seriously gnarly.
3) I usually get on the very last 31BX in the morning. I say usually because maybe about once or twice a month it just doesn't come. Granted, there are other options, but that's not the point. The point is I've been making a similar promise, except I'm sending my cab bill to Gavin. (Maybe we should all start doing that-sending cab bills, screen grabs of late clock-ins that result in making up work, etc.)
That's when I can FIND a cab in the Inner Richmond. That's a different problem.
I hear you on the cab-Inner-Richmond-thing. Talk about a trial!
But yeah, I definitely think we need to start billing Gav or MUNI or both for our late/missed-bus cab fare.
Next time I'll do it!
Sorry I spoiled your meal when I wrote about Smack in a box guy. Ew.
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