Fog City Notes

Bus Report #667

2012-01-23T12:22:00.000-08:00

This morning I waited for the 22 down on Fillmore, in the dark and in the rain, alone.
I stood all the way back between the benches - mostly so I'd stay dry and also because I've noticed if I stand under the overhang but don't back up, people walk by and pretend not to see me there, and they either walk right in to me, or they give me dirty looks and try to get me to move out of the way. Strange, but it happens all the time so I guess it's the thing to do.

Several people walked by on their way to the 38.
Then the street was quiet again, no cars and no people. For a moment I wondered if it was Sunday and I'd gotten up early by accident.

A man approached from around the corner and walked straight towards me.
He wore cowboy boots, madras shorts, a leather jacket, NASA baseball cap and a red knit cap on top of it. His face was square and his eyes were narrowed into almost invisible slits. His mustache was thick and black and needed a trim. He clutched a crumpled lottery ticket in his hands and fidgeted with it, all the while staring at me and trying to catch my eye.

There was something about him that unnerved me. I hoped he'd keep walking.

The man stood right in front of me at the curb and at first, because it was still so dark out, I did not notice that he was still staring at me.
It was as though he was issuing a silent challenge for me to acknowledge him.
Honestly, if he hadn't seemed so creepy, I would have wished him a good morning, or something, but the way he stared, the way his face was set, I was actually frightened.

And I've waited in worse places at worst times, and never felt that way before.

The bus should have arrived already but it didn't. The man kept staring.

Finally, though I hated to give in, I moved over a few feet to the left.
The second I'd vacated my spot, he was there, tucked between the benches, playing with his lottery ticket.

The bus did arrive then, zooming right up in front of me, and it was my favorite morning driver, sunglasses and beret and white white teeth, good morning darling it's nice to see you, and we were off.

Bus Report #666

2012-01-20T11:33:00.000-08:00

Last night's rain made the evening commute on the 22 a soggy, slow ride.

Has anyone else noticed that there are no bus shelters (inbound) from Connecticut and 17th all the way to Potrero and 16th?

I stood by the door of Thee Parkside and waited for the bus.
It pulled up just as the friendly woman was crossing the street, so I asked the driver to wait a moment for her to catch up.
I sat down beside a girl who looked like a young Janeane Garofalo.
She took in my wet coat, my wet bag, and shrunk away from me against the window.

I listened to a Planet Money podcast about lard... and felt a little sick.
At Geary I switched to the 38 - and found Carmen waiting on the curb for me.
"Hello!" she said. "Are you taking this bus?"
"Sure," I said.
We got on through the back of the bus and she pointed to an empty seat. "Do you want this?" she asked.
"You take it," I told her. "I've been sitting all day."
"Well, I was standing all day," she said. "So okay."
She sat and I stood next to her, and we chatted a bit. Her daughter is in Spain right now, so I dug my iPod out of my bag and pulled up the photos from my trip.
Carmen put on her glasses and flipped through the photos.
"It's so nice to see you having fun," she said.
I laughed, and thanked her.
I almost missed my bus stop, we were having such a nice visit with each other.
I squeezed her shoulder and shoved the iPod in my pocket, and took off, calling a "see you tomorrow!" back at her as I left.

Bus Report #665

2012-01-19T15:08:00.000-08:00

This morning my 22 driver was a driver I haven't seen in about a month.
He opened the door and smiled and I smiled back.
"It's nice to see you," I said. "Where have you been?"
"I had pneumonia," he said.
"Are you feeling better?" I asked.
"About 58%," he replied.

Later, walking past the garage, Frank waved me over.
"Hey, where you been lately?" he asked.
"I was in Boston," I told him.
"I was just thinking, 'I haven't seen Rachel lately'," he said. "Glad you're still around."
"Thanks," I said. "You have a good holiday break?" I asked.
"Yep," he said. "And I got a New Year's Resolution."
"Oh yeah?" I asked.
"I'm joining a gym," he said, thumping his belly with his hand.
"That's great," I told him.
"See you tomorrow," he said.
"Definitely," I said.

Bus Report #664

2012-01-18T10:40:00.000-08:00

This week's commute, so far...

2 sightings of the man who always sits next to me, who stinks of rose-scented cologne - he sat next to me on Monday, walked to the back of the bus on Tuesday.

3 sightings of the little guy with the suit jacket and the baseball cap - he sat next to me on Tuesday, in front of me this morning.

1 sighting of my favorite 22 Fillmore driver - he slowed the bus near the garage this morning, honked and then waved at me, flashing his beautiful bright smile as the bus kept going.

1 sighting of the friendly woman who is always on my 2 Clement - we chatted about our holiday trips (she went scuba diving in Cabo) - and for once I made sure to speak loudly and clearly, because she can't hear me unless she is looking at me straight on.

Bus Report #663

2012-01-17T11:07:00.000-08:00

Last night I rode the 38 from Fillmore up to Masonic.

The bus was not crowded but there weren't any free seats, so I stood near the accordion fold, in front of an older woman who kept staring at me as though I was about to steal her purse, or hit her with my tote bag.

There were a few kids in the back door stairwell. They played with their phones and slurped tapioca drinks.

I don't know why I watched the kids - nothing else to occupy myself with, I guess.

Most of them got out at Scott, then a couple at Divisadero.

The bus stopped at Baker and the doors opened with their usual hydraulic whoosh.

Two kids got out, and then the last kid lunged at the woman sitting across from the door, and he ripped the iPhone out of her hands.

She pulled away from him, and shouted something, and then I was at the door too, yelling, "HEY, HEY, HEY!" as loudly as I could, grabbing for the boy, grabbing for the bright white phone, the headphones, whatever I could get a hold of.

We scrabbled for the phone and got it back. The kid took off down the street, his hood covering his face, no chance to identify him if it ever came to that.

The bus driver didn't pay any attention. She shut the doors and we were on our way.

The woman sat back down and wound her headphones around her phone before shoving it into her bag.

"Thanks," she said.

No one else said a thing, and no one moved.

Bus Report #662

2011-12-30T10:59:00.000-08:00

The 2 Clement, a few days after Christmas.

The bus was crowded but my folks and I got seats in the back of the bus.
Sitting next to my father was a man who was unmemorable in every way but one.

He had his eyebrows draw on, thick, sharp, brown lines that extended from his nose, up over his real eyebrows, then around and down to his ears. Whatever he had used to draw them on had smudged, so that the closer the line got to his ears, the lighter and messier it got.

He was dressed like all the other day laborers and construction workers you see on the bus every day. His boots were white with dust.

What on earth had he been thinking?

My mom and I smiled at each other. I tried to get my dad's attention, but it took a while. When he finally took a look at his seatmate, he grinned and nodded.

I wondered about the man with the drawn-on eyebrows. Surely he had a friend or co-worker who could have pulled him aside at any point and said, "you know, that doesn't look natural," or, "I think you might want to try something different."

The man got out at Van Ness.

I silently wished him luck.

Bus Report #661

2011-12-26T10:40:00.000-08:00

Christmas Eve, waiting for the 14 Mission, my visiting parents in tow.
We were by Embarcadero. Across the street, several homeless people were lying on the sidewalk, in a patch of sun.
A family walked by - the mom in a sequined shirt I could see from across the street, the dad in a suit jacket, the little daughter in a bright red coat and a black fur hat.
There was something strange about them and I nudged my mother to take a look at them.
They walked towards one of the homeless women and stopped.
I thought, oh, how nice, they're going to give her something, Christmas spirit and all that.

But no.

Instead, the dad leaned down and talked to the woman, and then the little girl went up to her and...

POSED FOR A PHOTOGRAPH.

She smiled, gave a thumbs' up and waved at her mom as she took the photo, then the three of them skipped down the street.

I hope they gave the woman money. A lot of it.

Let's help Julie!

2011-12-07T16:31:00.001-08:00

Julie Michelle is the local photographer behind I Live Here: SF, and a wonderful person to boot.Her partner Lee recently had a stroke and they could use some help.
Julie's done so much for us, let's turn it around and help her out...
Check out this link for more info.

Bus Report #660

2011-12-07T07:40:00.001-08:00

Last night the 22 was crowded when I got on, and there were a dozen or so men scattered throughout the bus, each man hauling a large trash bag full of stuff.
I took the window seat beside one of the men. He moved his bag so I could sit down.
"You can put it near my feet," I told him. "I'm not getting out for a while."
"Me, either," he said. He spent most of the ride picking lint off his track suit and staring out the windows.
Occasionally he would run his hand over his shaved head and inspect a cut above his eye when he could catch his reflection in our window.
Whenever I shifted in my seat he would start to stand up. "You're okay," I said each time. "I'll let you know when I need to get out."
After we passed Church Street he began getting twitchy. He would stand up and look around, sit down again. He leaned over me and peered out the window.

He got out at Hayes with the rest of the trash bag-carrying men. They were all headed for the half way house down the block.
I watched them go, this troupe of men, and though I didn't say anything, I wished them luck.

Bus Report #659

2011-12-05T08:50:00.000-08:00

This morning there were already people lined up by the Fillmore, with a barricade partially set up. A dozen other people unloaded a large truck in front of the venue - loading in the night's show, I guessed. But who were these people waiting outside the Fillmore at 6:30 AM, in the dark?
A look at the show schedule gave me my answer: Metallica fans.

The 22 pulled up and I got on. It was empty. "How's it going?" I asked the driver.
"Better, better," he said.
"Better is good," I replied.
I sat down and the driver said, "You've got the bus to yourself, at least for a couple of stops."
"I'll make the most of it," I told him.

Bus Report #658

2011-12-02T08:55:00.000-08:00

Coming home from downtown last night, the 38 stopped to pick me up in front of a row of shuttered stores in the first block of Geary.

I sat behind a boy with a huge suitcase with the words "Polo Classic" written in big block letters all around the side of it.
He had a bag, too, stuffed under the seat, right up against my toes.

Mel's on Geary and Spruce had half the neon burned out on its sign so that it said, "Mel's Vein" - And I liked that.

A couple of drunk boys got on at Arguello and spent the next few minutes peering out the windows to make sure they didn't miss their stop.
At 9th, one of the boys said, "this is our stop," but none of them moved.

Bus Report #657

2011-11-30T08:50:00.000-08:00

Tuesday morning I got on the 22 and the driver said, "Why weren't you here yesterday?"
"I was traveling back from Thanksgiving," I told him.
"Well, it's good to see you," he said.

The man with the terrible rose-scented cologne sat next to me as he often does. I reached up and opened the window to get some fresh air.

A few stops later, I saw my first Santa hat of the season, perched on the head of a tall, gangly guy in a beige suit.

Bus Report #656

2011-11-16T09:06:00.000-08:00

This morning I walked out to catch the bus, my headphones on, my music blaring.
It was dark out, and foggy, and I felt good.
I skipped down the block until I hit Geary.

Bus Report #655

2011-11-15T22:00:00.000-08:00

I left work late tonight, and ended up on the 33, smashed up against the window of the bus as we rolled through the dark.
My seatmate was reading Cormac McCarthy, but I didn't see which book. She kept pulling her phone out of her pocket, jabbing at it a little, then putting it back in her pocket.
At Mission the bus emptied out. Night time, but 16th Street BART plaza was still packed with people. No surprise.
Approaching the Castro and one woman turned to the girl sitting behind her. "Where did you get your stockings?" she asked.
"Urban," said the girl.
"Oh yeah, how much?" asked the woman.
The girl shook her head, said, "I don't remember."

A fire or police action on 18th a few blocks up from Mollie Stone's. Flashing lights, no smell of smoke.

A nearby storefront empty except for a bright pink feather boa floating in the window, surrounded by soft lighting.

People forget that at night, when their shades are up, we can see in to their homes. I wanted to browse a bookshelf in a dark wood-paneled living room off of 18th Street.

A man sat in his window, his TV screen less than a foot in front of him, his mouth slightly open, his feet stretched out along the windowsill.

I peeked in to a kitchen off the panhandle, chestnut colored wood cabinets with frosted glass fronts. A plant hanging in the window, the light on, no sign of anyone around.

I was in the Haight last week but it still looked different to me, a new shop or restaurant here, a boarded up storefront there.
At Stanyan I got a new seatmate, a woman wearing (what looked like) a snakeskin jacket. She smelled like old meat, whether it was the jacket or something else I couldn't say.
She spent the rest of her ride rummaging through her two large bags, and elbowing me in the side as she did it.
A bearded boy stepped down from the bus at Fulton. He sat down on the curb and fiddled with his ipad. The light from the screen was the only light nearby. His face seemed to glow as he hovered over it.

Bus Report #654

2011-11-11T07:49:00.000-08:00

When my 38 Geary driver pulled up this morning, the bus was empty and dark. He opened the door and said, "They didn't give you the day off?"
I smiled and said, "You either, huh?"
He held a lollipop in his hand. He licked it. "Nope," he said.

The 22 was empty, too, but by the time we got to Turk there were about a dozen passengers, most people napping or listening to headphones.
A man with a cane got on the bus. The driver held his hand out and said, "Man, you try this every day, you tried this 20 minutes ago. You can't be on this bus. Get off."
The man said, "This ain't no beer, it's for my eyes. It's for my eyes," and he started getting in the driver's face, shoving his 'eye medication' at the driver, and cursing him out.
"You've got to get out of this bus," the driver said again.
The man kept yelling, even began threatening the driver. Finally, he called our driver a "Bitch ass N----," and got off the bus.
The driver shut the door. "Maybe, but at least I'm well paid," he said.

It might be a holiday today (thanks for your service, veterans and active duty military personnel!) but at the coffee shop it was business as usual.
James was there and we chatted for a moment.
"I thought you'd taken the season off," I said. "Haven't seen you since baseball ended."
"I went down to Houston," he said, shaking his head. "Too damn hot down there."
"Welcome home," I said.

Bus Report #653

2011-11-10T12:02:00.000-08:00

Due to a new schedule, I now see Carmen most afternoons instead of in the mornings.
It is great to see her, even if I can't easily save her a seat like she used to do for me in the mornings.
The other day the seat beside me was empty so I waved her down when the bus picked up passengers at her stop. We rode toward home together and caught up on things, and laughed like we always do.
At Geary we ran for a 38L and crowded onto the back of the bus.
There was an empty seat and I urged her to take it.
"Because I'm an old lady?" she said.
"Oh please," I said. "Old? No way."
"Ah," she said, grinning. "Well, you are fifteen, right?"
I laughed. "Mmmm, well, twice over," I said.

Bus Report #652

2011-11-10T08:36:00.000-08:00

In front of Thee Parkside waiting for the 22 Fillmore.
Two large vans with extra equipment attached to their backs tried to park across the street. It wasn't going to happen but they kept trying.
There were a few of us waiting for the bus, mostly regulars.
A UPS driver I know drove by and waved, and I waved back.
"Friend of yours?" Asked another regular, a woman with a cloud of permed hair framing her face and a large starfish necklace around her neck.
"I've known him for years," I said.
Just then, a woman in a bright orange t-shirt came by, yelling and shouting in our direction but as she was speaking in tongues and making no sense, she was mostly just yelling at herself.
"Oh man," said the woman with the starfish necklace.
The yelling woman stopped walking and waited at the far end of the bus stop.
"Hopefully the driver won't let her on," I said, as the woman continued shouting, cursing, and lunging at passersby.
But.
Of course the driver let her on, didn't even ask for her fare, and she sat in the front of the bus babbling and yelling at everyone. She directed most of her attention at the woman with the starfish necklace, and at a couple seated across from her.
She stumbled out of the bus at Geary.

I waited for the 2 Clement, and after a few minutes starfish necklace woman walked over to wait, too.
"That was quite a ride," I said.
"It's a full moon tonight," she said.

Bus Report #651

2011-11-07T20:08:00.000-08:00

A slow, slow ride home tonight.
The 22 came on time, with a new driver, a woman who refuses to smile.
I got on and sat in a window seat towards the back, my headphones on, and I zoned out to the best of my ability.
We made our way down 17th to 16th and up to the Potrero Center. We were moving quickly enough, until we got to the Bryant Street stop.
A wheelchair passenger needed to get on, but no one was moving from the seats in the front of the bus.
The driver slowly stood up and said, "You gotta move," but with no sense of urgency.
A few people moved toward the back of the bus. A young man in a suit and a tie flipped the seats up.
Just as the driver lowered the lift, a woman with two kids tried to get out through the front door.
She did not seem to understand why the driver wouldn't let her out, and instead of walking to the back door she stood there next to the driver, with both kids, completely in the way.
When the wheelchair passenger tried to get on, the woman with the kids did not budge.
The driver did not say anything, either.
Eventually the wheelchair passenger maneuvered into her spot. The woman with the kids got out.
We crawled to the light and sat there another light cycle.

Mission Street, a crowd gathered in the BART plaza because two men and a woman were fighting. They were all yelling at each other and people in the crowd kept trying to calm them down.
The bus driver didn't seem to notice or care.

We continued our slow commute up 16th, down Church, stopped for way too long by Safeway as every person and vehicle imaginable crossed in front of our bus. Just one of those nights, I guess, but I had things to do and could feel my night slipping away from me more and more.

We got to Geary and I ran to catch the 38L.
Much better, I was home in fifteen minutes.

Bus Report #650

2011-11-01T10:00:00.000-07:00

Waited for the 22 Fillmore in the dark this morning, for over twenty minutes.
When the bus finally came into view, I smiled - the bus was hurtling towards the stop at a breakneck speed, so I knew it was my favorite early morning driver, he of the dark glasses, leather hat and brilliant smile.
"Well hey there," he said, leaning out of his seat after he yanked the doors open. "How have you been?"
I smiled, patted his arm. "I've been good, thanks. Great to see you."
I sat by the door, next to the coffee cup girl. She was reading Moby Dick.

Bus Report #649

2011-10-31T07:57:00.000-07:00

Halloween, the time of year when it is most hard to tell who is in costume and who is in their regular dress.
Woman in slightly ratty Ewok costume, sitting across the aisle from me on the 22 Fillmore - Costume.
Man in normal clothes and skeleton mask, sitting next to me, 38 Geary - Costume.
Young twenty-something man with waxed handlebar mustache, porkpie hat and skinny jeans on the 33 Stanyan - I'm going to guess not costume. Barista or bar tender? Bicycle shop employee?

Bus Report #648

2011-10-19T12:06:00.000-07:00

Last night My seatmate on the 22 was a very pale man in a baseball cap who, on reflection, looked like a grown-up Charlie Brown.
He read a Terry Pratchett book, very, very slowly.

Across from us, two women in full Muslim dress chatted loudly until we got to their stop. They stepped down from the bus at Haight, in front of the shuttered Estela's, which bore a sign reading: ESTELA'S WILL BE BACK!

I was glad to read that.

A petite elderly man got on the bus with a tote bag that said, 'Danger, Men Cooking'.

Our bus idled longer than it should have at Geary.
Two teenage boys, tired of waiting, sighed loudly and left through the back doors.

Bus Report #647

2011-10-18T11:58:00.000-07:00

The 22 Fillmore is always an adventure in the afternoons, especially if you're carrying a large and ungainly package marked FRAGILE.
I got on the 22 and sat towards the back of the bus in a window seat. It was hot out, and bright, and I was sweaty and uncomfortable by the time we got to Potrero.
A woman got on at Bryant, huffing and puffing, wearing a brown shirt and hot pink pants, both items oddly shiny.
She sat down beside me and a wave of patchouli came off of her.
I thought I might be sick.
The window above me was stuck closed and when she tried to open it, another hit of patchouli wafted off of her.
"It's stuck," I said.
"Figures," she said.
She got out at Safeway (as I had predicted - my clue? The Safeway circular in her hands) and I took a deep breath of outside air as the doors snapped open.
My next seatmate was a man who got on at Haight, forgettable except for his curly mustache that he couldn't stop stroking.
I got out at Sutter without incident, and my cardboard box made it home only a little worse for the wear.

Bus Report #646

2011-10-18T08:00:00.000-07:00

The light is changing in the mornings, so that it is still dark when I get down to Fillmore.
Monday morning I jogged across Geary to catch the 22.
The driver, on the route for about a month, saw me and smiled, and held the bus for me.
"Where've you been?" he asked, as I tagged my Clipper card.
"Vacation," I told him.
"I thought so," he said.

An easy morning commute for my first day back at work after a week in Barcelona. Jetlagged but otherwise fine, I watched Fillmore Street change into Church Street and then into 16th.
I was home.

Bus Report #645

2011-10-05T08:53:00.000-07:00

Last night after hanging out with J. I looked down the street to see if the 24 was coming.
I hadn't expected it to be arriving, but it was! We said goodnight and he walked home, and I got on the 24 and rode towards Geary.
Two kids in the front of the bus had a box of pizza on the seat next to them.
A very vocal, rumpled looking man kept asking for a slice, but the kids just laughed politely and said nothing.
When I got out at Geary to catch the 38, I could see the lights of the bus approaching from Fillmore Street.
The bus was quiet and fairly empty.
I sat in the back near a man practicing calligraphy (and writing the days of the week in Italian, I think). He put away his markers and took a library book out of his bag. A biography of Sal Mineo.
Ah, dreamy Sal Mineo. He looked at the photos for a while and I realized I hadn't seen Rebel Without A Cause in a long time.
He gathered his books, supplies and a box of groceries and got out at 3rd Ave.

Bus Report #644

2011-10-04T08:35:00.000-07:00

The 22 was crowded yesterday, and when we got to Mission Street people had to push their way off of the bus.
My seatmate got up and started down the stairs. They were slippery from the rain, though, and she slipped and fell.
For a moment no one did anything, then someone in the back of the bus said, "Help her up!"
A couple of people helped her up and led her over to the bus shelter to sit down.
She wasn't crying but her face was all scrunched up and you could tell she was in a lot of pain.
People were talking to her outside, and the driver got out and went over to talk to her, too.
Then he got back on the bus and without saying anything to anyone, he took the bus out of service and called in to report the accident.
There was no doubt that he did the right thing by calling it in, but it drives me nuts when the drivers don't make an announcement to the passengers that the bus is going out of service.
For the second time in a week (first time was the Lower Haight fire, my bus just stopped at Church and without any explanation the driver got out and didn't budge, It took someone in the front of the bus to confirm the bus was stopping and to let everyone know) we all had to figure out for ourselves why we weren't moving.
Does anyone know if the drivers are required to make an announcement? Or are we all supposed to have ESP?
I was annoyed, not at my poor seatmate but at the driver.
I crossed the street to wait for a 33 Stanyan, that took fifteen minutes to arrive when NextBus promised a five minute wait.
My commute home sucked, but I couldn't really complain. After all, I wasn't the one who fell down the stairs.

Don't miss the fun - Muni Diaries at Elbo Room tonight!

2011-09-28T11:17:00.000-07:00

Anyone planning to go? It should be fun. Muni Diaries always throws a good bash.
See you there.
Come find me and say hi - I've got pink/pink plaid sneakers on today.

Bus Report #643

2011-09-26T20:25:00.000-07:00

Late afternoon waiting with Carmen for the 38 Geary.
A very agitated man in shorts and a baseball hat started pacing in the street, oblivious to the oncoming traffic.
"All the crazies are always around here," I said.
Carmen said, "My niece says the only guys who ask for her number are the crazy ones."
We had a good laugh, then got on the 38 and walked to the back of the bus. We sat next to a woman who was on the phone, across from a couple of zoned out High School students and three rows away from one man who stared at us as we walked by.
As usual we talked in Spanglish, more gossip about her recent vacation and her family.
The man who had been staring at us twisted in his seat. He was tall and gangly, with a beige cap and a blue windbreaker. There was something about him that made me feel uncomfortable. The way he was looking at us, maybe? Smiling while his eyes bore into us, two strangers he didn't know, sitting far enough away that he shouldn't have paid us any attention.
"Tu muy bonitas," he said.
We didn't realize he was talking to us until he repeated himself, louder.
We looked over and I think Carmen said thanks.
She turned to me and asked me, "Is he talking to you, or to me?"
"You," I teased her. "Your new crazy boyfriend."
"I think he's talking to you," she replied.
She said, "Let me show you a photo of my niña," and she started scrolling through pictures on her phone, looking for a snap of her daughter.
"Can I see a photo of your niña?" asked the creepy man.
I can't imagine anyone would show him anyone's photo, especially not when he asked that way. It made my skin crawl.
We ignored him, to the best of our ability.
"I know you don't know me," he said, "But I'd really like to see it."
I couldn't help it, I snapped at him. "No, you can't."
For the rest of the ride he watched us.
I almost didn't get out at my stop, worried he'd follow me. Irrational? Probably. But his stare was just so intense, it made me nervous.
I hesitated when the bus got to my stop. "This is you, right?" Carmen said.
"Yeah," I said. I hurried out of the bus with a group of teenagers.
"Que te vayas bien," Carmen called after me.
"Nos vemos," I called back.
I walked down the street, fast, and did not look back.

Bus Report #642

2011-09-21T21:16:00.000-07:00

The 22 was late again today, but at least the driver was the friendly man with the sweet smile who always stops for regulars and chats up the old ladies. He makes the afternoon commute a little better.
I sat against the window next to a petite woman with a large trash bag full of laundry, or sewing, or something like that. Something soft. The bag pressed against my ankle. I didn't mind.
At Mission, a wheelchair passenger and their friend got on and settled in front of me. They were women, I think, but I never saw or heard enough of them to tell for sure.
The wheelchair passenger was quiet. She sat in her chair and looked out the window. Her friend - girlfriend? Wife? Best friend? made sure the brakes were on and then she perched on the side of the folded-up seat and spoke softly to her friend. Occasionally she adjusted the chair or played with the wheelchair passenger's hair and bandanna.
Carmen got on a few stops later.
"Please, sit," I said, starting to get up.
"No, it's okay," she said. "If you weren't here I'd be standing up anyway. No te preoccupes."
"Are you sure? I could hold your bag or something?" I offered.
She shook her head. "It's okay," she said.
We chatted a little, until the bus grew crowded and the driver came on the PA system and said, "Everybody, if you could just move back a few feet, it would be really helpful. I'd really appreciate it, and we could get on our way here."
People shuffled a little and the driver was finally able to close the front door. "Thank you, folks," he said. Carmen ended up in a seat towards the back of the bus.
My seatmate got out at Church Street. My new seatmate was a bear of a man with a large backpack and a heavy-looking cardboard box. The box sat on the floor at his feet. He drifted off to sleep, snoring loudly.

Bus Report #641

2011-09-20T09:00:00.000-07:00

Another day with bad afternoon 22 service.
Fifteen minutes waiting in the sun by Thee Parkside for a diesel bus.
I sat in the back, squished between a woman who was asleep and a man with an overstuffed backpack on his lap, his legs spread wide. He did not give up any leg room, no matter how much I wiggled in the seat.
The bus started and stopped, jerked back and forth. Was the driver unused to driving the diesel coaches?
At Mission one of the Ethiopian ladies who is often on my bus in the morning got on and stood in front of me. Her friend got on. He had four heavy bags of groceries and they kept sliding across the floor. The bus was too crowded for anyone to move, or I would have offered him my seat.
At Herman Street my sleeping seatmate woke up and dashed off the bus. Had she missed her stop, I wondered? How far back?
The man with the groceries gestured for another regular rider to sit down. She told him he could sit, but he shook his head and gestured again for her to take it.
"We can hold your bags," I offered him. My new seatmate nodded.
"Yes," she said, "It's no problem."
He looked to the Ethiopian woman for a translation. She gave it, and he smiled at us but shook his head all the same.
My new seatmate looked over at me and said, "What's up with this driver? This is awful."
"I know. I think some drivers are out today or something. This is really weird."
When we reached Geary I got out and ran across the street to catch the 38.
Several regulars were there, too: the woman who always gets on at 16th and Church, some of the older gentlemen who usually get out at Masonic, and, for the second time in as many weeks, Carmen.
We sat in the back of the bus and she said, "I have my photos from my trip, want to see them?"
We paged through her photo album as the bus rattled up the hill. They were great photos, so colorful and beautiful.
We flipped the last page just as the bus neared my stop.
"Thanks for sharing," I said. "Nos vemos muy pronto."
I waved at her and stepped down onto a chilly Geary corner, and headed home.

Bus Report #640

2011-09-17T08:44:00.000-07:00

Friday afternoon I got to the bus stop and saw that there were at least a dozen people there already. This did not bode well and while Next Bus had said there would be a bus in five minutes, it took another twenty minutes for the 22 to show up. It was, of course, already completely packed. I stood in the back holding on to the back of a seat. I am just not tall enough to reach the hanging straps or the bar that runs just below the ceiling.
The bus emptied a little at Mission Street and I slid in to one of the rear-facing seats. The seat was damp with sweat from the man who had just vacated it. I pretended not to notice.
I had my headphones on and was listening to a repeat episode of Radio Lab when I saw Carmen sitting down in the seat across from me.
"Carmencita," I said, taking off the headphones, the sunglasses.
She slapped my knee and said, "Hello! It has been forever!"
We caught up on our summers: my trip East to school, her trip to South America with her family.
At Church Street a teenage boy slumped into the seat next to me. Typical baggy clothes, sideways cap, gigantic high top sneakers with florescent laces.
Something happened while Carmen and I talked and laughed, and gently nudged each other with our feet. The teenager sitting next to me started talking to us, and he turned out to be a really sweet, nice kid.
"My Grandma up in Sacramento cleans houses and is saving for me to go to college," he told us, after Carmen mentioned a continuing ed. class she had taken at City.
"Wow," I said. "That's great."
"She is so nice," Carmen said.
The boy nodded at Carmen. "You kinda remind me of her, except you're younger," he told her. "Cause she's from El Salvador and she's always trying to get me to talk to her in Spanish but I really can't speak it." He shook his head. "I can say, like, Abuela and stuff, but that's it."
Somehow Carmen and the kid got to talking about when he was little and his Grandma would chase him and his brothers around the house when they were bad, and hit them with her belt. Carmen nodded and said, "It's because she's very traditional."
The boy laughed. "Yeah, we used to put pillows in our pants so when she hit us we didn't feel it."
"We used to do that, too," Carmen said.
As the bus neared Geary I asked her where she was getting out. "Jackson," she said.
"I'll ride with you," I said. Even though it was several blocks out of my way. I didn't mind, it had been so long since we last saw each other, and we still had a lot to talk about.
The kid was getting out there, too.
"On your way home, or to work?" Carmen asked him.
"Nah," he said, waiting for us on the sidewalk. "Going to see my Grandma."

Bus Report #639

2011-09-02T08:15:00.000-07:00

On the 38 yesterday, headed downtown to the Museum of Craft and Folk Art.
The bus was packed with kids and I vowed not to ride Muni right after school gets out ever again, unless I absolutely have to.

A woman stood in front of me wearing an I [Heart] SF T-shirt. She also had an I [Heart] Las Vegas purse. I wondered if she loved SF and Vegas equally, or if one won over the other.

Our bus got mired in terrible traffic between Powell and Stockton - construction crews moving heavy equipment as slowly as was possible. Our driver was nice enough to let everyone out who wanted out... Otherwise I think I would have sat there another fifteen minutes.

Later, on the way home, I sat between two girls with terrible breath. I closed my eyes and tilted my head up towards the window and hoped for the best.

And lastly, my new least favorite bus stop has got to be the 38 Outbound stop on Geary between Polk and Van Ness.
Now that half that block is shut down and boarded up (and slated to be torn down to build a new CPMC, I think, right?) It is dark and vacant and I keep thinking I see people moving in the abandoned apartments upstairs.

Bus Report #638

2011-08-23T19:13:00.001-07:00

The 22 was late tonight, so that our bus filled up before we got to Potrero and another bus was right behind us, empty despite the pleas of some of my fellow passengers for newcomers to wait for it instead.
One woman sat in the back of the bus fanning herself with a magazine. She shook her head each time we stopped, which was other minute, or at least that's how it felt.

I couldn't get out of the bus fast enough when we got to Geary.

In the back of the 38 there was a Russian girl dressed in full Gothic Lolita costume, the frilliest, pinkest, laciest dress I've ever seen on an adult woman.
Next to her, mumbling, was a man with a huge split lip, blood oozing from the very visible slash on his lower lip.
He moved to the row of seats in the back of the bus and I took his seat, first checking for blood before I sat down.

Bus Report #637

2011-08-22T19:51:00.000-07:00

This morning the 38 was almost empty.
Despite the many available seats, a man who was bleeding from his face sat right next to me.
I am not usually squeamish about blood, but there was something about this man that made me feel sick. He kept a tissue pressed against his cheek, a shaving cut, probably, and every couple of minutes he would take the tissue off and look at it, and then press it to his face again. The tissue was polka-dotted with red and brown spots.
Ugh.

At Fillmore I waited and watched the homeless man who sat in the bus shelter across from me. He is there every morning and many afternoons, safe inside the fort he builds around himself out of cardboard boxes and free weekly papers.
The other day I noticed that the hood of his parka was spray-painted with what looked like some letters. I wondered if he'd been tagged while he slept.

The man with the black glove and the bright white tennis shoes got on at McAllister.
When I got out at Bryant he got out, too, and stood right next to me as we waited for the light to change. I went for coffee and he headed into Safeway, as usual.

Bus Report #636

2011-08-19T11:16:00.000-07:00

All week the 22 has been a few minutes late in the mornings.
Today when the bus finally arrived I got on and sat in one of the few empty seats, near the back of the bus.
The woman sitting in front of me had all of her stuff on the empty seat beside her. She bit her fingers and her nails the whole ride.
She had a pierced nose and the skin around the nose ring looked red and infected. She smelled like melon-scented bath products and vomit.

A few stops later, a new regular got on the bus. He is a petite man in a black baseball hat, a grey suit jacket, ill-fitting black slacks and bright white tennis shoes. This is his uniform, though he seems to alternate between the grey jacket and a navy one.
He always carries a red plastic bag (with his lunch?) in his left hand, on which he wears a black glove. His right hand is never gloved, just the left.
He seems to travel all the way to Potrero just to use the restroom at the Safeway - at least, I've watched him head that way three times in the past few days - and I wonder what he does the rest of the day. I don't think he works there... Maybe he just likes the facilities?

Bus Report #635

2011-08-17T23:10:00.000-07:00

Another crowded bus this afternoon.
A wheelchair passenger got on at Potrero - a young man, early 20s, with CP or something similar.
At Mission Street his hat fell off his head and onto the floor. I was in the back of the bus but I watched as he tried to get the attention of the older woman sitting across from him.
He looked at her and then pointed at the hat, then looked at her again.
It took a few minutes for her to understand what he needed.
She asked the girl standing in front of her if she could pick up the man's hat, but the girl just shrugged and looked away.
The older woman sighed and slowly stood up and picked up the hat.
She tried handing it to the man but he couldn't grab it. He pointed to his head.
The older woman settled the cap on his head and sat back down.

Bus Report #634

2011-08-16T11:06:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon, and the 22 Fillmore was crowded as we slowly made our way up 16th Street.
The bus emptied out at Mission, and I got a new seatmate, a man with several grocery bags and the biggest, thickest gold necklace I've ever seen around his neck.
It looked like a length of rope dipped in gold. I wanted to say, "Wow, that's quite a necklace," or "I like your necklace," or even just, "That's impressive," but I said nothing and just stared out the window.

Bus Report #633

2011-08-15T12:02:00.000-07:00

This morning my seatmate on the 22 Fillmore was a tired-looking man in dirty jeans and a jacket zipped up to his neck.
He smelled like my brother when he wakes up first thing in the morning - freshly laundered sheets and sleep, and with a warmth radiating out from his body.
He got up after a few stops and transferred to the 21 Hayes.

Bus Report #632

2011-08-12T10:50:00.000-07:00

Last night the 38 was crowded but I got a seat in the back, by a window.
Downtown was alive even though it was late, and there were people everywhere. When we pulled in to the Powell Street stop there were at least thirty people trying to get on our bus. I don't know how many made it, but people were sardine packed against each other.
The girl sitting in front of me looked like she had just come from the early 90s. She had long hair swept over her shoulder and a soft-looking, worn out flannel shirt that was too big for her, so that she seemed to swim in it. Her look was completed by several ropes of tiny seed beads around her neck, the beads a red color that brought out the stripes of red and pink in her blue/gray/red/pink flannel.

Bus Report #631

2011-08-09T09:08:00.001-07:00

This morning, as seen on 16th Street and Bryant: a cracked burned-at-home DVD with the words Big Booty Moms written on it in permanent marker.

At the coffee shop, James waved to me and tried to give me money for my coffee.
"That's very sweet," I said, "But you really don't have to."
"I-I-I want to," he said, and he pressed a five dollar bill into my hand and wouldn't let me say no.
I got my coffee and brought him his change. I thanked him but he still wasn't having any of it.
We talked about baseball - The Giants, of course, his favorite team, and we talked about the foggy weather.
"Thanks again," I said, "But I should go."
"All right, you have a good day," James said. He tilted his face up towards the light. When he does that, he reminds me of my grandfather.
I told him I'd see him tomorrow.
I walked past the garage and down towards work.
I heard a 22 Fillmore bus pulling in to the stop under the overpass and I looked up to see my favorite driver grinning at me and waving as he opened the front door.
I stopped to say hi, as I often do, and he beckoned for me to get on the bus. "Come on," he said. "Get in here. I miss you."
I got in, figuring we'd chat for a second and then I'd continue on my way, but instead he closed the door and took off down the street.
"I guess I'm getting a ride today, huh?" I said.
He laughed. "Looks like it," he said.
I asked him if he was doing anything fun this summer and he said he was getting more involved with his church. They'd asked him to do some things for them - it sounded like he might be preaching or helping out with church services.
"Problem is, I just need to get more confident," he said. "That's what's blocking me right now."
I shook my head. "I don't think you have any problem with confidence," I told him.
He's the driver that makes friends with all the regulars. He sweet talks the old ladies, shakes everyone's hands. His smile is high wattage, and he flashes it all the time. Confidence? He's got it.
I said, "see you later," when we got to my stop.
And I walked up the hill feeling happy, serene, and looking forward to today.

Bus Report #630

2011-08-07T12:11:00.000-07:00

Rode downtown to run some errands the other day. Only empty seat was next to a youngish kid, maybe a college freshman-going-on-sophomore? He stared at me blankly when I asked to sit down. He did not move his stuff, so I had to climb over him.
His friends sat across the way and they spent the whole ride talking about exactly the kind of stuff you'd expect: Anti-materialism (even as they wore sweatshirts with the logo of a California-based chain on them), cigarettes/cigarette ads as phallic symbols, and wacky roommate situations.
I half-expected to hear some of my own college topics of conversation, or the words hegemony, proletariat, or critical social theory.
I caught the tail end of their discussion about fake breasts, and how they felt to the touch.
I looked at the kid sitting next to me and thought, you talk a good game, kid, but I don't believe you.
When I had to get out, I climbed over him again.

Bus Report #629

2011-08-05T23:03:00.000-07:00

Wednesday evening I waited for the 22 at my usual stop, a few minutes later than usual.
I saw the bus coming around the corner, and at the same time a big delivery truck double parked on the corner across the street.
It was inevitable that the bus poles came down as the bus tried to get around the truck. There was just no clearance for the bus, no way the poles could stretch that far.
So the driver idled the bus in the middle of 16th Street and, shaking her head, stepped down from the bus.
She got the poles back up in just a couple of minutes.
When she was finally able to pull the bus into our stop, she said, "Sorry about that, I almost made it."
I said, "You fixed that pretty quickly. I was impressed."
"Thanks," she said. Then, shaking her head again, "Double parkers."
I sat a few rows from the back door, in an aisle seat.
The driver was great - she greeted people as they got on, called the old folks 'honey' and 'sweetheart', and most impressively, she called out each stop and each transfer point, and where each bus at the transfer point was going.
"16th and Potrero," she said. "Transfer to the 22 going towards 3rd and 20th, the 33 Stanyan to Children's Hospital, the 33 Stanyan to Potrero, the 9 San Bruno and the 9 Limited."
She did this even though most people didn't seem to pay her any attention.
A man sitting near the front of the bus kept smiling when she reeled off the different destinations.
I couldn't help it, I smiled, too.

Bus Report #628

2011-08-02T23:59:00.000-07:00

I waited for the bus tonight, after meeting up with D. to write in a cafe way out on Geary.
I didn't get enough work done, but that's okay. I'll take what I can get this week.

At the bus stop there was a boy with a guitar. He played a song and sang, too. He wasn't bad.
He had curly dark hair and a tie-dyed T-shirt. The typical San Francisco summer visitor.
He wasn't the only person at the bus stop with a guitar: Standing a few feet away was a twenty-something man with a mohawk, his hands shoved into his pockets, and a guitar in a soft case, strapped to his back.
When the curly-haired boy finished his song, the mohawk guy said, "That was pretty good, man," and they shook hands.
"You going to a gig?" the boy asked him.
"Nah. Actually going to record, lay down some tracks."
"Cool," said the boy. "I'm going to an open mike? Down at Ireland's?"
The bus pulled up and I waited for them to get in.
They were still talking about playing, so they told me I should get in ahead of them.
The driver leaned out the bus and said, "You guys want to get in, already, talk inside?"
They ended up sitting near me, talking about the open mikes around town.
The boy was in town just for the summer: staying with an uncle in the Outer Richmond, but flying home next week. "My Ma will meet me at the airport," he told the man with the mohawk.

I got out at my stop and walked home.

Bus Report #627

2011-08-01T21:21:00.000-07:00

The beautiful part of this afternoon's commute:

A man with a star-shaped tattoo by his eye, sitting in the bus stop at 16th and Mission, playing a maroon accordion.
"I don't make fun of anybody," he said, in answer to a couple of kids who had just accused him of disrespect.
The music seemed mournful, slightly-Tango inflected. Slow.
I tried to catch his eye, to thank him, but his gaze was fixed somewhere across the street.

Bus Report #626

2011-08-01T18:48:00.001-07:00

This morning I got down to Fillmore just in time to see the 22 fly through the light and head up the street. Ah well, I thought, we're starting off the week just right, aren't we?
I waited for the bus at the Sutter Street stop, happy for the change of scenery, the lack of people sleeping in the bus shelter, and the strange comfort of the canopy of tree branches above me.
Ten minutes later a 22 came barreling down Fillmore. I smiled. I knew that break-neck driving - it was my favorite 22 driver, he of the dark glasses and the leather cap.
He pulled up in front of me and I got in.
"Good morning, honey," he said, as he reached for my hand. I grinned and shook his hand, and told him I was glad to see him.
I sat in an aisle seat near the back of the bus.

The ride was uneventful and I spent most of it zoning out, staring out the window.
We stopped at Mission Street and the bus filled up.
The Roche Bobois guy sat next to me, nodding his head in acknowledgment.

This afternoon I walked down to the bus stop with T.
We had both lost track of time at work until suddenly it was past time for her to leave, and just in time for me to split for the night.
We rode the 22 together until Potrero, where she hopped out to catch the 9 San Bruno.
The bus grew crowded, so much so that our driver came on the PA system and said, "I'm so sorry folks, but as you might be able to tell the bus is full, so if you are trying to get on, I hate to tell you, you need to wait for the next coach."
It was very polite of him, and he made that announcement at least six more times during the ride.
As we sailed past Harrison Street, he said, "All you folks waiting outside, I'm so sorry, but we're full."
I thought, I wouldn't mind waiting if every driver who passed me by could make a similar announcement.
A woman with tattoos up and down her exposed spine kept standing up to throw things out the window.
A little boy sitting in front of me played with a toy car, and everyone sitting near him kept smiling and telling his mom how cute he was.

I got out at Geary and crossed the street to the stop by the Boom Boom Room.
A sardine-packed 38L came by, but I waited for the much emptier regular right behind it.
My seat mate read the Examiner, and as he finished each section he threw it under the seat.

Bus Report #625

2011-07-25T15:42:00.000-07:00

This morning I missed the 38 and then a 38L, so I waited in the early morning mist-that-was-really-more-like-rain. It felt good on my face. The light wind was refreshing, too.
A 38 pulled up and I got on. We booked it down Geary, and got to Fillmore before the 38L that had been behind us.
As we got to the stop I saw a 22 pulling in to the stop a few feet away, so I ran across the street and made the bus just as the driver was about to shut the door.

The bus wasn't very crowded, but it smelled awful, like stale cigarettes and old food. There was a big puddle in the back of the bus, but I couldn't tell what it was.

I sat in a window seat by myself until we got to Church and Market, where a woman with a large, bulging tote bag and her purse sat down beside me. Her purse was a garish polka-dotted number that she kept open on her lap the whole ride, so she could reach in and pull out pieces of a sandwich.
When we got to my stop I signaled that I needed to get out, and she looked at me, and then swung her legs into the aisle.
This left just a few inches for me to slip out, with my purse and my lunch bag. I sighed and the Cor-O-Van guy sitting across the aisle from us caught my eye and shook his head, then rolled his eyes. I smiled and gave him a shrug. What can you do? I thought.
The woman must have caught our exchange because she suddenly hopped up and made some room.
I got out of the bus and went for my coffee.

Bus Report #624

2011-07-23T20:05:00.000-07:00

Friday afternoon on the 19 Polk.
You can sit in the back of the bus with a family of loud talking teenagers, or in the front with a toothless woman who says "Hello" any time your glance drifts toward her and the window.
You choose the woman, deciding that repeated friendly greetings are more your speed than cackling teenagers.
The bus stays oddly empty until Market. Usually this is the stop where the 19 empties out, but not today.
A dozen students from the ballet school get on, and then a handful of other folks who suck their teeth at the students and tell them to move to the back of the bus, come on now, move.
A man stands next to you. He clutches a cup of coffee in one hand and holds onto the back of your seat with his other hand.
The pocket of his stained jacket rests on your shoulder. No amount of wriggling or leaning away from him seems to help. The pocket is not going anywhere. He talks to himself. Sometimes loudly, sometimes in a voice barely above a whisper.
"You can't go in without an appointment," he says. "You gotta make the appointment and you gotta show up early so they know you're there. You gotta make the appointment." He watches a young man slip in to the only open seat in the front of the bus. "Unh uh," says the man standing next to you. "You can't take that seat, gotta leave it for a lady."
Even though it doesn't seem possible, even more people crowd in on Larkin. The driver tells everyone to move on back.
Someone standing in the back of the bus yells back, "Ain't anywhere else for us to go."
The man standing next to you gets out at Sutter. Your shoulder is finally pocket-free.
A few blocks later, you turn to your toothless seat mate and ask her to pull the signal cord for you.
She says, "hello," and pulls the cord, and smiles a mushy but sweet smile before you stand up and get out of the bus.

Bus Report #623

2011-07-22T07:45:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday, late, coming home on the 38 Geary.
I'd spent most of the ride listening to music and hadn't paid much attention to the other passengers.
The usual late night mix of drunk kids, folks on their way home from work and tourists unsure of where they were going. I thought I saw the handsome South Asian chef's boyfriend, but not the handsome South Asian chef himself.
The lights on the bus were bright and irritated my eyes. I didn't feel like I needed to put on my sunglasses. That seemed like overkill.
The bus approached my stop so I pulled the signaller and went to the door. I turned my head to the left and saw a familiar face framed in white-blond hair.
The Alien Donut Man was sitting two seats away from me. As always he sat rigidly upright, his hands on his knees, his blue parka zipped up to his neck, and his feet tucked in to their velcro orthopedic shoes.
Where was he going, I wondered? The donut shop was a few stops back. As always, I wanted to swaddle him in soft blankets, or bubble wrap. I wanted to give him money for his donuts and coffee.
Instead, I got out of the bus and walked down the street towards home.

Bus Report #622

2011-07-20T20:56:00.000-07:00

This morning I overslept at least an hour. My alarm clock had died - I woke up to my neighbors coming down the stairs, the light streaming through the slats of my blinds.
I don't think I've ever gotten out of my apartment as quickly as I did today.
I ran out to catch the 38. The bus approached the stop but made no effort to stop.
"Hey!" I called out, almost running out in front of the bus. The driver, someone I'd never seen before, stopped but he didn't seem happy about it.
I made sure to thank him as sweetly as I could, and went to sit down.
I soon realized our driver just didn't feel like stopping the bus for anyone. He bypassed half a dozen stops. We got down to Fillmore in ten minutes.
The Clean Team truck was parked in the bus stop. A woman stepped down from the truck and began sweeping the bus stop with a small broom. I thought it would take her forever to clean the whole stop.
It was so bright out. I put my sunglasses on and squinted up the street to look for the bus.
The 22 arrived and I got on. It felt strange, almost like it was my first day of school. The bus was full of new faces. The price of sleeping in, I thought.
I was the stranger on their route, not the other way around.

Bus Report #621

2011-07-20T20:30:00.000-07:00

And now, a story that I probably should have recounted weeks ago, but forgot about.

I was on the 22, heading home after work. The bus wasn't very crowded. I chose an empty seat in front of a couple who were talking very loudly. Almost as soon as I sat down, I realized why the seat was empty. These two people were all over the place.

The man, who sat in the window seat, kept standing up and moving around. The woman sat on the aisle. She wouldn't let him get past her. And just to add to my confusion, the man addressed the woman as Auntie, even though I doubted she was his aunt.
"Give me my damn phone," the man yelled.
"I don't have your phone," the woman yelled back.
"You'd best be giving it back to me, you bitch," he said. I heard a scuffle behind me but did not turn around, even though I wanted to. The woman cursed him out and moved to the seat on the other side of the aisle.
They kept yelling at each other, until the man reached in to his pocket and found his phone. He did not apologize to her.
"I gotta call Little Mama," he said. "What's her number?"
Another argument ensued: Auntie didn't want to give him the number. Finally, she snatched the phone away from him and punched in the phone number.
"Hey, Little Mama," the man said. Their conversation was short.
The bus crossed 16th and Bryant. The man said, "Yep, yep, we'll be at Mission Street in a quick minute." He ended the call.
Auntie sat back down next to him.
The man started rustling a paper bag. "I gotta divide this shit up," he told Auntie.
She took a deep breath and said, "mmmmm... I love that smell, but you know I don't smoke no weed. But that smells all right."
"You're not getting any of this," he warned her.
As our bus hit South Van Ness, the man said, "listen, we gotta get rid of this white powder I got, before we see Little Mama, or she'll have a fit."
"All right, all right," said Auntie.
And then, seconds away from the Mission and 16th bus stop, the two of them finished off the man's 'white powder'.
"Wipe your nose, wipe your nose," the man hissed at Auntie. "You've got it all over your face."
"I'm fine," Auntie said. The two of them stood in the stairwell, wiping their hands over their faces for a moment, before they got off the bus and met a woman who I assumed was Little Mama across the plaza.

Fog City Notes Shills for Independent Bookstores

2011-07-18T21:12:00.000-07:00

I love to read. I read for pleasure, I read for school, I read to pass the time.
This requires a lot of books.
It would be so easy to sit at my computer and buy all my books from a mega famous everything-for-sale store.
But you know what? I can't do it. Not that I haven't done it, I have, but I'd really rather not.

If I buy books online, I almost always go to Powell's. I can't recommend them enough.

And for those of us in San Francisco, we have plenty of local bookstores to take advantage of.
Green Apple, Dog Eared, Books Inc., Adobe, Forest Books, Phoenix Books, Booksmith and many more.
We used to have even more choices - rest in peace Abandoned Planet, A Clean Well Lighted Place for Books, Casa de Libros, Stacey's.

Our local neighborhood stores are where we go for book signings and other related events.
They know what the neighborhood reads and make sure to stock the books we are interested in. They know about books, about literature. They want to share their favorite reads with the customers.
When I want something new to read, I know the Green Applers will be able to recommend something perfect.
I've been to Booksmith events featuring Paul Auster, David Sedaris, Andrew Sean Greer and Michael Chabon.
TC Boyle came to Green Apple and did a reading down the block at the Rocket Room bar.
Henning Mankell signed his latest novel in a cozy alcove in the Red Delicious Room.

Sure, the mega everything store can get me just about anything I want in two days, but you know what? If I can wait a few more days I know my local shop can get the same book for me, and I don't have to pay shipping.

What's the point of all this? This summer, this week, I've been thinking about how important bookstores are.

I'll leave off with this final observation: I've worked at three bookstores in my life - two of them, my favorite former places of employment, both closed and the third store will probably be closed soon. And it just breaks my heart.

So go buy a book.
(then leave me a comment about what you bought, and where you bought it!)

Bus Report #620

2011-07-16T11:18:00.000-07:00

Last night I took the 10 Townsend downtown to meet L & H for dinner.
The bus was crowded. I sat in a window seat with several different seatmates - a new one every couple of stops.
At 4th and King the neon was burnt out on the sign for Taqueria, so that it just read, queria.
Our bus inched up 2nd Street. Near Harrison, a woman carried a light blue bowler hat as though it was a precious object, holding it in both hands in front of her body.

The bus got caught at the light at Bush Street. It's a short light and cars kept stopping in the intersection. The man sitting next to me sighed. A woman standing next to him said, "This is insane, isn't it?"
My seatmate said, "The cars just keep coming."
I said, "Bet you that school bus stops in the intersection when it's our turn to go."
Four light cycles later we were on our way. I jumped out at Sacramento and walked up to Broadway, taking a roundabout route through Jackson Square. I love the old brick buildings and how quiet it is down there outside of working hours.
There were clots of people in front of Vesuvio and City Lights, taking pictures, smoking cigarettes, peering at the books in the window displays.
I saw L & H waiting for me on the corner.

Later, after dinner and coffee, I left L & H near their hotel and walked down to catch the 38.
The bus arrived a few minutes later. I sat in the back. The man in front of me clutched his head in his hands and mumbled to himself. I hoped he wouldn't get out at my stop so I watched him, but at some point I must have gotten distracted because he disappeared somewhere between Divisadero and Collins.
I stepped out of the bus at my stop. The fog obscured the traffic lights so that they looked soft, almost a suggestion instead of a direction.

Bus Report #619

2011-07-13T13:19:00.000-07:00

Recent Muni sights I (don't think) I've mentioned yet.

-A sign from SFMTA hanging above my seat encouraging people to take Muni to Ocean Beach. No mention of the 38 Geary, the bus we were all on.
-A man reading Kavalier & Clay, one of my favorites, so devastating I had to put it down for several months, but so good I finished it in one evening when I picked it up again.
-A neon hotel sign shrouded in early morning fog.
-A man spinning wool into yarn on the 33 Stanyan. The entire process just mesmerizing.

Bus Report #618

2011-07-13T13:05:00.000-07:00

Last night on the 22 I sat next to a slightly twitchy man who kept leaning forward to look out the window, then leaning back and sighing.
I knew him.
Rather, we'd met before, briefly, one night a couple years ago when he was out at a local bar with a friend of his. They were both drunk and very friendly, and P. and I hung out with them a little. I can't remember either of their names but he had a memorable face: very angular jaw, sideburns that didn't look stupid, and dark, dark eyes, so brown or blue they were almost black.

I got out at Geary and waited for the 38 huddled in the bus shelter with a half-dozen other chilly commuters. The bus came and we got on.

Another familiar face on this bus, too, L. who I took a class with a few years ago. He used to give me rides home from our foggy and cold Fort Mason campus. He'd pull up to me as I waited in the bus stop and he'd fling open the passenger side door of his little, beat up standard death trap. "Get in!" he'd say, barely stopping the car for me to jump in.
I know we got some weird looks from other folks waiting for the bus, but a ride's a ride and I never said no.
I hadn't seen him in a long time. Is it possible for adults to get taller, noticeably taller, like almost a foot taller? Because he looked as though he'd grown, and towered over me more than I remembered. His hair was wild from the wind, a little thinner and longer than I remembered. He had two grocery bags on the floor between his feet. He seemed lost in thought and did not notice me.

I worked my way to the back of the bus, wondering why it was so empty.
I smelled the reason a moment later - the rear of the bus smelled like fresh vomit and old clothes.
There weren't any obvious culprits lurking in the back of the bus, either. One woman kept her hand on front of her face. A young man I recognize from around the neighborhood kept his chin tilted up towards the open window.
I got out at my stop. The smell of fresh baked bread from the bakery nearby hung in the air. I gulped it in, greedily.

Bus Report #617

2011-07-12T07:42:00.000-07:00

Days and days on Muni and not much to report.
Yesterday I was walking to work after getting my coffee (and spending some time chatting with James about baseball) when my favorite 22 Fillmore driver pulled up beside me and opened the door, just to say hi, just to smile and wave and wish me a good day. I smiled and waved back at him, told him it was great to see him.

The guys at the garage were leaning over a work bench, their coffee cups holding down some papers. Frank looked up and hollered over, "Hey, have a good day, see you tomorrow!"

A friendly morning, to say the least.

Sunday afternoon I took the 33 Stanyan down to the Mission to meet E. for coffee.
The upper Haight was full of tourists and neighborhood people, some clowns (in every sense of the word) on stilts out front Ben & Jerry's. I noticed more empty storefronts than the last time I rode through the Haight. Add the impending closure of the Red Vic to the list and it is not a pretty picture. But the Booksmith looked busy as did the Haight Street Market, so all is not lost.

After a fun couple hours drinking coffee, looking at murals on Balmy Alley and pricing Lucha Libre masks down on 24th Street, I headed back up to the bus stop.
Back in my neighborhood, the fog had already rolled itself out over the avenues and the wind had picked up. I buttoned my jacket and hurried down Geary to home.

Bus Report #616

2011-07-06T11:07:00.000-07:00

Back in San Francisco after almost 2 weeks in Boston. This morning I got on the 38 and the driver said, "You been on vacation or something?"
"I was," I told him, not feeling the need to go in to detail about school.
"Well I hope you had a good time," he said.
"I did, thanks," I said.
I tapped my Clipper card once to (hopefully) activate my autoload, then again to make sure it accepted my card. Success! But I won't be autoloading again. I think it's stupid that it can take 3-5 days to register on your card. No thanks.

Boston was good - just as it should be. It was hot, humid, a different summertime experience than what we're used to out here. I spent my mornings riding the 66 bus to Cambridge in air-conditioned silence, the bus barreling through traffic, picking up people dressed in summery clothes we just don't see enough of around here.
A cheerful see-you-later to the driver always resulted in smiles and waves and a joke or two when our paths crossed further up Mass Ave.

Later, I'd wait by the cemetery for the bus home. A ritual dating back to my high school days.

One night, waiting for the 66 across the street from Charlie's Kitchen, I felt transported back in time over a decade.
I pictured waiting for the last bus out of the Square with Andy, while our co-workers stayed upstairs knocking back beers ahead of last call.
Andy lighting a cigarette on our often-times-true assertion that smoking accelerated the bus' arrival.

Bus Report #615

2011-06-16T13:14:00.000-07:00

You're running late, again, but still manage to catch the 38L just as you get to the bus stop.
It's a smooth ride down to Fillmore. You don't care either way; if you're late, you might get your favorite driver, and that is never bad.
Instead, the driver is new to you, friendly and smiley, but new.
You settle in to your seat after opening a few windows.
At McAllister, the poles come down so the driver slings her purse over her shoulder and gets out of the bus to fix it. You are on your way again in a couple of minutes.
At Mission Street the poles come down again, this time for good.
At least it is a straight walk down 16th to get to work from there, and the driver is apologetic as she explains to the boy with the limp: "There's no way these poles are gonna keep up for the rest of my route."
So you hop out and start walking, glad it's not too hot, glad you're not walking from McAllister or Church like you've done before.
Perhaps because you're not stressing, after a couple blocks a 33 Stanyan pulls up and you get on, ride a few stops to the coffee shop.
And maybe this is why you're a few minutes off schedule today - James is sitting in the window. And you've been worrying about him. It has been months since you've seen him, and as you open the front door you think, "he's still alive."
And he smiles, and he says, "Hey, I was wondering where you went!"
And you reply, "I'll come visit with you, just let me get my coffee first."
The barista fills your thermos, slides you a coupon for a free cup. You'll use it weeks later, running to get something hot to drink before a volunteer gig downtown.
Thermos in hand you go over to where James is sitting.
He greets you in his usual, friendly way, stuttering a little, but that's okay because for him, you've got the time.
"I can't complain," you say, an answer to his question about how things are going.
He smiles and throws his head back and says, "well, you could, but no one would listen to you!"
You leave the shop, telling James it's great to see him.
You say hi to the man pruning the hedge next door. You wave to the cluster of blue-jacketed people waiting to be let in to their office.
Across the street, Frank has his headphones on and is washing down a patch of sidewalk in front of the garage. He takes off one earphone and says, "Hey! What's going on?"
"Same old same," you reply. Which is true and also not true. But he smiles, wishes you a good day and gets back to his work.
The sun is so bright you are blind even with your sunglasses. As you climb the hill you feel the familiar pull in your legs that reminds you how good it feels to be walking up the street at such a steep grade.
And that's your morning.

Bus Report #614

2011-06-09T11:01:00.001-07:00

Last night's 22 Fillmore bus was one of the diesels, so it was hot, it was crowded and there was a lot to see.
Kids trying to pretend they were tapping their non-existent Clipper cards.
Two guys discussing a third friend's military experience: "It was either the army or he'da had ta go to prison."
I had my headphones on, listening to The Cuban Cowboys, then Orphans & Vandals, then Jorge Drexler. But I could still hear my neighbor's conversations.

Dramatis Personae: Snappily dressed girl with slight pompadour, to her friend, dressed head-to-toe in black, some of her clothes faded to different shades to make the over all look kind of shabby. For convenience sake, let's call them Mary Sue and Jane.

Mary Sue: I don't know what you know about 90s music, but basically a lot of it was really screamy female bands and stuff like that. [oh Mary Sue... You were still in diapers in the mid-nineties, are you sure you want to talk about things you don't really know about? -ed.]

Jane: Like what are some examples?

Mary Sue: Well, like for example this band The Gits? They were a 90s band, but like, a punk rock band. From Portland. [Incorrect. Seattle. - ed.]

Jane: I've never heard of them.

Mary Sue: It's sad because like, the singer's voice? It was really strong? And then like, she got MURDERED.

Jane: Oh my god, that's like, so RANDOM.

Mary Sue: Yeah. She was on her way home and like, went down the wrong street and she was killed.

Jane: Wow. So you like their music?

Mary Sue: Well, I haven't really heard more than a couple songs. But I have all their CDs!

I sat there and wished I hadn't just overheard their conversation. I think I lost some brain cells.

At Geary I switched to a very packed 38L. In the back of the bus I stood between a pack of teenagers and a woman probably not much older than the kids. The kids couldn't stop snickering about the woman, and staring at her.
She wore one of those unflattering, stretchy empire-waist shirt dresses, the top of which was stretched out over her lumpy, drooping breasts, the rest of it looking too upcycled and drapey to do anything for her.
She had both arms in the air, her hands clutching the poles. Her arms were all scratched up, her skin flaky, her underarms a mess of scraggly red hair. The kids just couldn't handle it.
To finish the look, the woman wore thick tortoiseshell glasses. The kind of plastic frames that didn't look good on me in seventh grade. Her hair was a mess, too. As though she had just rolled out of bed.
The kids laughed and stared. The woman did not notice.

Bus Report #613

2011-06-08T22:46:00.000-07:00

I can't read on Muni without getting motion sick, but tonight my 22 Fillmore was full of people reading books.

A man sitting in front of me read one of those rapture/end of days kind of books, title and author unknown. I wouldn't have guessed: he looked fairly normal.

Next to him a woman read one of Tracy Kidder's books. I didn't see the title. I hoped she was reading Home Town, but I bet she was reading Mountains Beyond Mountains (I liked them both!).

At 16th and Church, a regular commuter, a woman who works near Carmen, got on with her library book, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.

Right behind her, a woman who looked just like Rayanne Graff worked her way towards the back of the bus with an unmistakable, gigantic book, Roberto Bolaño's 2666, one of my favorite books of all time.

On the 38, two middle school girls got on and stood in front of me. While she wasn't reading it, one of the girls had a textbook that was called something like Health for a Lifetime, or Lifelong Health.

Bus Report #612

2011-06-07T09:16:00.000-07:00

This morning, on a quiet 22 Fillmore.

A man in a suit bidding farewell to the Muni driver who often rides with us down to Potrero: "Have a good day, Doug, and be kind to the American public today."

The boy with the limp, the skateboard and the Thermos tucked in to his back pocket. Today, he'd left his limp at home.

The sun poking through the layer of fog above the Castro. The huge AIDS ribbon on the hill a stunning shade of red.

Bus Report #611

2011-06-06T19:50:00.000-07:00

The 22 was on time but already getting full. I asked a kid who had her backpack on the window seat if I could sit down, and though it killed her to do it, she heaved her bag onto the floor to make room for me to sit.
The second my body made contact with the seat, the seat felt a little damp and a little sticky. I hoped it was just from the bag being out in the rain earlier. I decided to wash all my clothes when I got home anyway, just in case.
I got a new seatmate at Mission - a man dressed head to toe in the same color denim. Denim porkpie hat, denim jacket, matching jeans. Quite the look.
I caught the 38 at Geary and Fillmore and sat in the back, right near the accordion fold.
There was a woman sitting in one of the seats in the accordion, a sleeping 3 or 4 year old next to her and her 2 year old little guy strapped to her chest, also sleeping.
Right before her stop, she started shaking the older boy awake. She roughly pushed him to his feet, but he was still so sleepy he didn't know what was going on, and he fell forward, his face hitting the floor right in front of the woman sitting across from him.
Those of us in the back of the bus gasped collectively as the woman sitting across from the family picked up the little boy and stroked his hand, telling him he was okay even as he began to cry in that silent way that always seems to signal intense pain.
His mother passed her hand over his face. She grabbed his hand and made him hold on to the pole. He started to climb up into the seat again but she didn't let him, insisting he stand and wait for the bus to stop.
Everyone's eyes followed her as she led him off the bus.
He's going to have a hell of a bruise in the morning.

Bus Report #610

2011-06-01T11:59:00.001-07:00

Last Sunday, showing the Little Sister a good time. We caught the F Market down near Embarcadero, planning to get some cake at our brother's favorite cake place in the Castro.
The train was crowded, the driver, someone I've seen before, tried to get everyone to load and unload the car as quickly as possible.
"I'd like to go home," he said over the loudspeaker.
Little Sister and I sat on a bench across from two couples - the men in khakis and button down shirts, the women dressed straight from a J.Crew catalog. They were all headed somewhere on Valencia and 15th - and I hoped they weren't planning to go to Zeitgeist while they were over there.
Someone sitting next to Little Sister started talking loudly on his phone. It was an older teenager or early-20s kid in jeans and a skull-patterned sweatshirt, with a flippy skater-kid hat.
"Yeah," he said, "grades should be in soon. I think I'm getting a B minus in my Queer literature survey class, a C in Psychology, and an A in Tae Kwon Do."
Little Sister and I stared at each other, trying not to laugh.
The foursome across from us did the same.
I couldn't help myself and burst out laughing, so hard my eyes were tearing up.
One of the men across the aisle said, "I needed to know about that Tae Kwon Do grade," and he grinned.
The kid went on, oblivious, talking about how he doesn't get more than 10 hours a week to practice skateboarding, but how he tries to watch the good skaters to learn their tricks.
Little Sister, the folks across the aisle and I kept looking at each other and tried not to laugh. The same chatty man across the aisle said, "This just gets more interesting as we go."
I nodded in agreement, clamped my hand over my mouth.
"Yeah, Grandma," the kid said.
Grandma?!?!? It set us all off again, laughing, smiling, trying not to arouse too much suspicion because we wanted to hear what this kid was saying.
"It was my boyfriend's birthday the other night," the kid went on. "He wanted Italian so I took him out. You know I'm not much for spaghetti but it was the only thing on the menu I could afford after he ordered his meal, so you know what, Grandma? I'm learning to eat spaghetti. It's not bad."
Little Sister, spaghetti aficionado extraordinaire, couldn't believe this.
The foursome stood up and got out near The Mint.
"I'm sorry to miss the rest of this," said the man from across the aisle.
"We'll let you know how it turns out," I promised him.

Little Sister and I got out at our stop and crossed the street, heading towards the cake shop.
"He needs a name," Little Sister said. "Let's call him Spencer."

We wish you the best of luck, Spencer: With your classes, your boyfriend, your skating and your spaghetti eating.

Ghosts on Muni

2011-05-24T12:32:00.000-07:00

I see ghosts on Muni sometimes. Or maybe it's more apt to say, I see ghosts while I'm on Muni.

It's nostalgia more than anything else. Missing friends who've moved, wistfully remembering places I've wanted to share with other far-flung loved ones.

The man who looks familiar from the back. His smile that reminds me of R., at least the R. in the faded photo tucked into the old journal bought from an estate sale out by City College.

The ghosts of long-shuttered stores and restaurants, the memories that come with them.

The Daily Dose on Irving Street. Writing postcards and drinking iced tea. The man who worked there, with his short, fat fingers.

Renting videos from Leather Tongue or Naked Eye or Into Video.

Hanging out in Mission Grounds drinking coffee. Snapping photos.

Writing group meetings at Cafe Macondo (now Gestalt), when I was only just getting to know the rest of the group. And even before, when the cafe had a different name I can't remember any more.

La Casa de Libros on Valencia. Buying Mexican detective novels.
Going to shows at the Covered Wagon. Walking back up to Market Street in the dead of night to catch the 7-Haight.

Elliott at the Fillmore my first spring in town. Keeping a set list for F.
Later, listening to an NPR obituary for him while commuting home on the 22, trying not to cry.

The briefest memory of a night on the N Judah with M. and Maria and Jason, coming home in the fog from a house party near Ocean Beach. Who I was then. Who I am now, not much different, just older, maybe less likely to go to a stranger's home so far away from my own.

Worrying. Worrying when I don't see the Alien donut man as often as I'd like, worrying that I haven't seen several other elderly commuters recently.

Seeing people who never existed except in my fiction: Emiliano on his skateboard down on 16th and Vermont. Another character clutching the strap on a crowded J-Church, struggling to stay upright.

Bus Report #609

2011-05-17T09:49:00.001-07:00

This morning when I left the house it was raining out, the kind of dewy spray that hits you from every direction so that you are damp all over.
The bus was about to pass my stop and I was still across the street, but the driver, one of the 38 Geary morning regulars, pulled over and waited for me to race across the street and get on.
The bus was empty except for three of us quietly letting the start and stop motion of the bus lull us into, if not sleep, a feeling of clammy warmth, and calm.

I got out at Fillmore and waited under the overhang for the 22.
A man wandered up to the stop, a tall, hefty man with bright blue sneakers. He set down a torn plastic bag and a leather zip up file case on the bench near where I was standing. He paced the length of the stop, talking to himself, not unusual for San Francisco, not even unusual for this bus stop (in fact, another whacked-out regular, in grey sweats and no shoes, walked by and yelled something at the big guy, before walking out into traffic).
The big guy picked tape off of the glass installation behind us. He mumbled something else, then crouched down to see if the bus was coming.
"It's right here," he said, looking directly at me.
I nodded, said thanks.
When the bus pulled up we all got in. I sat behind a man who looked like Groucho Marx, glasses, nose, mustache, the whole thing.
I watched the big guy, who sat a couple rows ahead of me.
He took two crumpled pieces of paper out of his plastic bag and smoothed them on his knee. He still had the bits of tape he had peeled off of the glass, and now he stuck the tape on the edges of the papers.
I didn't pay him any more attention until he got out at Hayes, hesitating in the step well for a moment before exiting the bus.
He had hung up his papers on either side of the step well: two faded, overly copied ads for facial plastic surgery, each featuring a woman in profile, her shoulders bare, her eyes almost invisible after so many copies.

Bus Report #608

2011-05-16T20:45:00.000-07:00

Sunday, race day, but I planned to stay as far away from the action as possible.
I had errands to run down near Polk Street so I walked out to California to catch the 1 California.
The bus was already full when I got on - packed with costumed people heading away from the beach.
Three butterflies, a graduate, some people dressed in knee socks and sweatbands.
The bus smelled, too, like a sweaty locker room.
I stood in the back next to another trio of runners, their numbers still pinned to their T-shirts.
By Laguna, the bus was even more packed, and a kid who was old enough to know better was kicking me, his mother not doing anything to stop him.
I escaped at Van Ness.

Later, on the way home:
Waited for the 2 Clement at Sutter and Polk. A man sat in the bus shelter, waving his cane at any cab that passed by.
"You need a cab?" I asked him, stepping into the street.
"They're not stopping," he said. "If you can get one, I'd be grateful."
I can almost always get a cab - not sure if it's luck, a hidden skill, or just that I'm a woman. I confidently raised my arm and tried to hail one of four cabs idling at the light.
The light changed, and they all sped past, ignoring me, ignoring the man with the cane.
"I don't understand it," he said, echoing my thoughts. "I'm from New York originally and there, you step off the curb and there are five cabs right there."
"I know, it's weird," I said. "I'll keep trying until the bus comes, but I see it up the hill so it'll be here in a minute."
"Maybe I'll just take that," said the man with the cane.
When the bus arrived, I waited for the man and several elderly ladies to get on, then I got on and moved to the back of the bus.
The man with the cane nodded at me from his seat in the front of the bus. "Thanks for trying," he said.

Bus Report #607

2011-05-13T08:21:00.000-07:00

This morning I was running about ten minutes late for the bus, but I wasn't worried.
At Fillmore I waited for the bus by myself.
A wild-eyed man in a white and gold sweatshirt walked by. He tried to catch my eye, said, "Hey, gorgeous. You're a gorgeous girl. Smile for me, gorgeous." I didn't respond, burrowed further into my jacket, shoved my fists into my pockets.
He walked away.
The 22 was in sight up the block. It came zooming around a garbage truck that was idling at the curb.
It was my favorite early morning driver. He smiled and flung the door open and leaned out of his seat. "Good morning, darlin'," he said.
I smiled back. "Good morning to you, too, sir," I said.

Bus Report #606

2011-05-10T12:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning the early 22 Fillmore bus must not have ever shown up.
I got to the stop and waited with the woman who always stands too close to me, the 80's woman (puffy jacket, faded acid washed jeans, red Reebok high tops, fake tan), and a couple of elderly ladies with hand carts.
A crazy man walked down the center of Fillmore Street with a vacuum cleaner in his right hand and a bunch of half-deflated balloons. "You wanna buy a balloon?" He asked, leering at us, stepping into a lane of traffic and getting honked at by a couple of cars.
We didn't want to buy anything he was selling.

Bus Report #605

2011-05-08T12:05:00.000-07:00

Friday afternoon, waiting for the 2 Clement.
A woman I've often chatted with in the bus stop is waiting, too, carrying a beautiful bouquet of miniature roses.
"Those are very pretty," I tell her.
"Thank you," she says. Then, "You're the lady who works beyond me, aren't you?"
It takes me a moment to figure out what this means, then I remember we've talked before about how she works on Harrison and my office is a few stops past hers.
"Yes," I tell her. "That's right."
The bus comes and we get on. She snags a seat in the front and I move to the back of the bus, where I sit on the long bench that some older 2 Clement coaches have. When the bus stops short, I fly across the bench, but it's okay, because no one else is sitting there.

Bus Report #604

2011-05-03T09:52:00.000-07:00

On my way home, sitting next to a large woman in a robin's egg blue terry cloth track suit. She shifts in her seat, asks me if I'm all right. "Fine, thanks," I tell her.

In front of the Kilowatt, a former regular who I haven't seen in so many years I can't remember what his nickname is.

Back in the neighborhood the alien donut man sits perfectly still and upright in his usual seat in the donut shop. Seeing me, he lifts his hand in a delicate wave and dips his head ever so slightly.

I dash across the street to Haig's, where the proprietor says, "I was willing you to come in, I saw you running across the street and tried to steer you in here."
I grin and say, "Of course I was coming in here."
He sells me a tiny piece of feta cheese for 95 cents. I carry it, wrapped in paper, between my thumb and forefinger as I walk home.

Bus Report #603

2011-05-02T21:48:00.000-07:00

Another 22 Fillmore morning commute.

The limping boy on his skateboard, racing down Fillmore to catch the bus at Haight. He has a thermos in his rear pocket and a tell-tale red-capped bottle of coffee creamer in a front pocket. He catches the bus and limps to a seat in the back.

On 16th between Guerrero an Valencia, the smell of freshly mowed grass, where there is no grass, and very few street trees in sight.

Thank you San Francisco, for 19 Years! Banner hung out front the soon-to-be closing Ti Couz.

Bus Report #602

2011-04-21T19:23:00.000-07:00

Three buses, three stories.

22 Fillmore.
My driver tonight was the same strange, talking-to-himself driver I had on the 33 a few weeks ago. The driver laughed at random intervals. He occasionally talked into the PA system, but none of what he said made any sense.
The bus went from empty to crowded, back to empty, back to crowded several times during our commute. When I got our of the bus at Sutter, it was with relief.

3 Jackson.
The 2 Clement would have been my first choice but it was nowhere in sight. When the 3 Jackson pulled up I waited for an elderly lady to get out through the front door.
She walked slowly, gingerly to the steps. She held the railing with her right hand as she descended the stair case. She saw me and held out her left hand.
I was to take it and help her down the stairs, so I did, smiling at her.
She squeezed my hand and leaned on me as she finished going down the stairs.
She shuffled down the street and I got on the bus and moved to the seats in the back.

2 Clement.
After the 3 Jackson spit us out on Presidio, I started walking up through Laurel Heights. A 2 Clement pulled into the stop as I walked past it, so I got on and sat against the window.
I got out in the middle of Clement and walked to the store, the library, and up past the donut shop.
The shop was empty except for the Alien Donut Man. He sat in the middle of the place, in his usual seat, with his paper bag of donuts and his Styrofoam cup of coffee. As I walked past the window he turned his head slowly and followed me around the corner with his eyes.
He lifted his hand in a small wave. I nodded my head and waved back at him.

Bus Report #601

2011-04-15T12:46:00.000-07:00

This morning I caught my usual 38 Geary, empty except for me, the man who wears two jackets (one puffy jacket under a black windbreaker - every day, despite the weather), and a woman who wears the most awful perfume (I always have to open some windows.)
At Fillmore I waited by myself (waved to the man driving the street sweeper, who always waves to me) for the 22 Fillmore.
It arrived and I got on, sat a row behind the coffee cup girl.
Everything was fine until we got to McAllister, when the poles came down off the wire and the driver couldn't fix them.
After five minutes she got back on the bus and announced, too cheerfully, "This coach is going out of service."
Of course it was, I thought, following the coffee cup girl out the back door.
NextBus said the next 22 would be along in 7 minutes. I decided to start walking instead. It was a nice morning, not too cold, sunny, the kind of morning you don't mind walking to work.
I hiked up the steep hill on Fillmore, turning around every few minutes to see if a bus was coming.
At my old bus stop at Oak and Fillmore I saw the man who always sits next to me on the 22 (he has bad cologne, too, and also necessitates an open window). He saw me walking and said, "No?" as in, no bus?
I shook my head. "It broke down," I said, my hands mimicking the bus poles, one hand falling over the other, then I swept both hands in the air. I hoped he got the picture.
He nodded and made the same motion with his hands. "No," he said.
"Sorry," I said, and I kept walking.
He caught up with me and said something I really could not understand. Either he was speaking to me in Cantonese, or his English was really, really unintelligible.
I just shrugged and pointed at the bus stop at Haight and Fillmore. "Maybe NextBus will say something," I said.
NextBus had nothing to tell us. There were two women waiting at the stop, Laverne's friend and a girl with wild black hair and a bright orange tote bag.
I walked on.
I was about to cross Church and Market when I saw a 22 Fillmore coming around the corner.
While I could have kept walking I decided to take the bus, since it would be faster.
The bus sped towards us and I recognized our driver: It was my favorite 22 Fillmore driver. As usual, despite the fifteen or so folks who had been waiting for him before I got to the stop, he pulled up right in front of me and opened the door.
"Morning dear," He said, grinning his friendly, warm smile.
"Morning, it's great to see you," I said.
I sat by the back door for the rest of the ride.

Bus Report #600

2011-04-14T13:10:00.000-07:00

Late last week I met up with The Teacher's Pet in North Beach.
My original plan was to take the 10 Townsend to Sacramento Street and walk from there, but it was Giants opening day and the schedule for the 10 was completely messed up.
NextBus predicted 15 minutes and 45 minutes right before I put on my coat, and then as I was about to leave work it changed to 35 minutes and 78 minutes. Nice.
I tried the 19 Polk, thinking I would just take anything headed down Market and then walk. Another no go. it was running every 20 minutes, except for the next couple buses, 1 minute and 39 minutes.
So I got on the 22 and rode out to Market Street, where I planned to switch to the F Market.
As luck would have it, a bright orange F Market streetcar rattled into the stop and I got on. Everyone was crowded in the front, as often happens with a bus full of tourists, so I patiently made my way through the crush to the back of the train.
Where a very smelly, very twitchy guy was pacing, mumbling, opening and closing windows, and throwing trash out of the windows.
Great!
I sat as far away from him as I could, near an open window.
The F slowly headed towards downtown. The crazy guy got out at Van Ness.
A very old man in a suit and tie got on at the next stop and sat beside me.
I started worrying about the time; we were supposed to meet at six and it was already quarter to. The F stopped at Third and Market and got out, and booked it down a crowded Kearny Street.
There are so many reasons to love San Francisco, and one of them, to me, is walking down Kearny, going from the financial district to the edge of Chinatown, to North Beach. People in suits and dressy shoes going one way, tourists and shoppers headed in the opposite direction. Jack Kerouac Alley connecting Grant Street in Chinatown to Columbus Ave. in North Beach.
The girl playing accordion outside City Lights Books.
Me, inside the bookstore, smiling at the spine of a familiar book, an old friend I haven't thought of in a while.
The Teacher's Pet found me in the back room at City Lights. We were both right on time.

Bus Report #599

2011-04-11T19:50:00.000-07:00

The 22 was crowded when I got on at my usual stop. There was an open seat all the way in the back against the window. No one else seemed to want it, so I worked my way back and smiled at the woman sitting in the middle of the back row.
"Can I slide in?" I asked.
She looked at me, then looked at the seat. She plucked an empty soda bottle off the seat and put it on the floor. Then she smiled and scooted a little bit to the right so I could get in to the seat.
"Thanks," I said, before she put her headphones back on.

At Mission the bus emptied out enough that I could move up a row, to the seats that face each other.
The bus was soon crowded again, but no one seemed to mind. Mostly, we were all watching a couple and their very new baby.
The mom had several plastic bags stuffed with baby clothes. She shoved the bags under the seat. The dad (well, he might have been her father, her stepfather, her uncle, or the dad, couldn't tell) held the baby girl in his arms. She was wrapped in three fleecy blankets in different shades of pink. Every couple of minutes he would unwrap the top blanket to check on her. She was so tiny and so quiet.
They were taking her to the doctor, up in Laurel Heights, and the mom thought they could take the 1 California (yep, that would work). Dad thought they should transfer to the 33 Stanyan (yep, that would also work).
I got out at Geary and waited for the 38. It arrived a few minutes later.

Bus Report #598

2011-04-08T11:43:00.000-07:00

I survived my first week using Clipper, no problems, no double beeps for me.
Now that I use Clipper I pay more attention to people who seem unable to properly tag their cards. It annoys me more than it used to, that insistent double beep of failure.

Twice this week my 38 Geary had out of order Clipper card readers. Not a big deal for those of us with monthly passes, but man, Muni must hemorrhage money by not fixing those things. They must not be hurting too badly financially if they let these things go, right? (Kidding!)

Bus Report #597

2011-04-01T07:38:00.000-07:00

This morning I said goodbye to the paper Fast Pass and joined the ranks of the Clipper carrying public. Luckily, I've got my Muni Diaries Fast Pass holder so I can fondly remember the good old days.
The 38 Geary pulled up to my stop and I got on. I had to remember not to just flip my card at the driver, but to tag it to the Clipper reader. Success! A single beep for me on my first try! I waved good morning to a couple of regulars and moved to the back of the bus to sit down.

Down on Fillmore I waited for the 22 with a tiny woman who wore an ineffectual slightly dirty mask covering her mouth and nose. I tried to stay away from her, but she decided she needed to stand right next to me.
When the bus arrived, we both got on. Another successful Clipper experience for me.
I sat behind the coffee cup girl and across from the woman who always used to stand right next to me at the bus stop.
At Mission Street the bus filled up, as it often does. There were a handful of people milling around in the plaza. A man in a wheelchair peered in through the busted open door of the public toilet, but he didn't go in.
I got out at my usual spot and went to get coffee. The sunrise was a wispy neon orange with stripes of grey blue. Walking to work I good morninged the guys at the garage, several UPS drivers and the big rig drivers parked by the brewery.

Bus Report #596

2011-03-30T08:20:00.000-07:00

This morning I was running a few minutes late, but it didn't bother me. I caught a crowded 38L down to Fillmore, then waited for the 22.
The bus came a couple minutes later and I got on. It was empty so everyone had their pick of seats. I opened the window above my seat. The bus smelled like mildew and unwashed bodies.
I sat against the window, listening to music, not really paying attention to anything or anyone.
When our bus stopped at Turk a few of the usual suspects got on: the teen girl who goes to Catholic School in the Mission, the older Russian woman with the fried, permed hair and a slouchy kid with an over-sized sweatshirt.
A familiar figure got on and walked towards me. It was James, an elderly man I sometimes talk to at the coffee shop in the morning.
He smiled at me and sat down beside me. "You stay out here?" he asked. "I thought you stayed by the coffee shop."
"Nope, I'm over in the Richmond," I said. "And I thought YOU lived closer to Potrero."
He shook his head. "I just like to get out in the morning and go somewhere, get some coffee." He laughed and his whole body shook. "I've got nothing else to do," he said.
James has a small diamond stud in his left ear. He is clean-shaven, with big wire frame glasses, a black baseball cap and if he isn't wearing a Giants jacket he's wearing a black sweatshirt. He stutters a little when he talks but it is barely noticeable.
He's lived in San Francisco for over forty years. He's retired now, and spends his time visiting his friends and family and drinking coffee at the coffee shop near my office. He's a friendly, chatty man and someone I always look forward to seeing.
I pulled the signal cord as we approached my usual stop.
"I usually get out at the next one," James said, "But I'll walk with you today."
We waited at the corner for the light to change.
"I don't feel like getting hit by a car today," I said, as a red Camry bore down on us.
He laughed. "Me, either. I'm 72 this year and I don't need to go that way."
We walked to the coffee shop together. The baristas were all dressed in 60s-style garb, and they had some music on. "It's 60s day!" said P., which made his hippie headband and necklaces make more sense.
James, always the gentleman, motioned for me to get in line in front of him.
"Thanks," I said.
When I put in my coffee order I leaned in close to K. (dressed in a green and cream patterned button up shirt, how retro!) and said, "Is there any way I can get his coffee, too, whatever he's getting?"
We were conspirators now. She nodded, shot James a glance. "No problem," she said.
When L. started to ring him up, she said, "It's already taken care of."
I thanked the ladies and wished everyone a great day.
"I'll see you later, James," I said, as he settled into his usual seat by the window.
"You have a good day now," he said, lifting his coffee cup in my direction.
"You,too," I said.

Bus Report #595

2011-03-28T19:09:00.000-07:00

The 22 Fillmore died at 16th and Church this morning.
"Sorry," said the driver as we all got out of the bus, two dozen annoyed, sleepy commuters who did not need to be where we suddenly found ourselves.
I turned up my music and started walking, figuring that even if we waited for a bus it would be crowded and slow and not the right way to approach a Monday back at the office.
16th Street was quiet, so quiet that for a moment I thought there was something wrong with my hearing. I kept pace with a blond, bearded boy who had been sitting in front of me on the bus. We didn't talk, didn't acknowledge each other, but kept catching up with one another at each street corner when the lights changed.
The knot of passengers thinned out as we walked down 16th. People turned down Guerrero and Valencia, others maneuvered through the scarecrows and overflowing shopping carts in 16th and Mission plaza, heading underground to BART.

I walked past the Victoria Theater: empty marquee, and a bright orange used condom on the sidewalk.

Orchids in the windows at the Poppy Flower Shop.
A length of rusty chain looped around the door to Irma's Pampanga Restaurant. Who would try to break in there? I thought.
Out front the health clinic, a handful of people already waiting to go inside.
I got to Potrero just as a 22 Fillmore bus pulled in to the stop.
I didn't get on, but kept walking the rest of the way to work.

Bus Report #594

2011-03-24T08:04:00.000-07:00

On my way to meet The Teacher's Pet I took the 22 up the hill to Farley's.
The bus wasn't crowded, and it was mostly quiet. Everyone looked tired and beat down by the rain, which had stopped for a few minutes. Still, we were all damp in our jackets and the teens in the back of the bus weren't even smack-talking each other.
A couple rows ahead of me sat a little boy with the coolest metallic red hearing aids. He talked to his dad about school and things he could see out the window.
A couple of men got out in front of Sunflower. The back doors didn't slide shut behind them as they should have, and the driver tried a couple of times to close them.
Everyone sat still, no one did anything.
Finally I got up and tugged the right-side door shut. The other door snapped back into place too.
The driver called back, "Thanks."
I sat down.
The little boy turned around in his seat and stared at me. I grinned at him and wiggled my eyebrows, winked. He burst out laughing, and I felt happy.

Bus Report #593

2011-03-23T19:50:00.000-07:00

For the fourth day in a row, the woman sitting across from me on the 38 was highlighting and underlining passages in the book she was reading, some book about teenage life in the countryside. I get sad when I see people writing in books, I can't help it. I wanted to pass her the sticky notes I use to mark my school books, say, "use these instead, you won't be sorry."

At Fillmore I stood alone in the bus stop until a man walked up and stood right next to me, asked, "How long you been waiting?"
"A couple minutes," I said, and moved away from him.
He kept pacing in the stop, crouching down to try to see the bus coming over the hill. He walked into the middle of the street to look, too.
I had my headphones on and tried not to pay attention to him, but his twitchiness was making me feel twitchy, too.
A Muni driver who is usually on our bus crossed the street and said something to the twitchy man. They both walked off together towards the 38, which didn't make any sense if they were heading towards the Mission or Potrero Hill.
A couple minutes later my favorite 22 Fillmore driver pulled up, flashing his beautiful smile and saying, "Good morning, dear, it's been a while."
I smiled and patted his arm and sat down.

Bus Report #592

2011-03-22T19:08:00.000-07:00

Tonight I caught a 33 Stanyan bus at Potrero and 16th. It was a diesel bus (they must be doing some overhead wire work - all the 33s I saw tonight were diesels) and it was full but not packed.
I took a seat in the back of the bus across from a man who was doing some embroidery. He had a metal embroidery hoop (I've never seen those! Mine are all wooden, really crappy fakey wood) and it looked like he was doing some sort of multi-colored design.
"What are you working on?" I asked him.
He looked up at me and said, "A birthday card."
"Cool," I said. He lifted the hoop for a moment as he adjusted the tightness. I saw that he had already embroidered a pretty design on the bottom and there was writing in three colors that spelled out: Happy Birthday Aunt Ellen.
What a great idea. What a great nephew.
We had a smooth ride up 16th to Mission Street. There were a lot of people in the plaza, as always, but I didn't see anything unusual tonight. Maybe the intermittent rain was keeping the crazies away.
The bus emptied out in the Castro. The embroiderer got up and waved goodbye to me before he left.
In the Haight two cops were trying to get some sit/lie kids to move on. It didn't look like it was working.
The bus spit me out onto Clement Street. From work to home in less than forty minutes today, lovely.

Bus Report #591

2011-03-22T12:09:00.000-07:00

Late afternoon, waiting in front of Thee Parkside for the 22 Fillmore bus.
I've got my headphones on, listening to some music, when I notice a high school kid in a baseball uniform standing next to the fence at Jackson Playground.
He sees me and calls out to me. I take off my headphones, yell back, "What was that?"
He points off to my left and says, "Can you do me a favor? Can you grab that baseball and toss it back over the fence?"
I look at my watch. Couple minutes before the bus is supposed to arrive, so why not?
I jog across the street and follow his pointing finger down to the street, where a filthy, worn out baseball sits next to a parked car. I pick up the ball and throw it over the fence.
The kid catches it and says, "hey, thanks a lot!"
"Welcome," I say, and cross back to the bus stop to catch the bus that's just now coming around the corner.

Bus Report #590

2011-03-17T07:42:00.001-07:00

Late the other night I walked out to Market Street with A. after drinks and dinner in North Beach. She took BART back to the East Bay. I waited at Market and Montgomery for the 38.
There were a handful of people waiting, most looked like they'd just gotten off work.
The bus was pleasantly empty at first. By the time we got to Union Square it was packed.
I sat towards the back of the bus, surrounded by tourists with big backpacks and some down-and-out folks just trying to stay upright as we rode up Geary.

One man looked very sick. He had his hood pulled up over his face but I could see his bloodshot, watery eyes and his open, toothless mouth. He clutched the pole with shiny, red, club-fingered hands. His sweatsuit was covered in flecks of dirt. No one wanted to stand near him. He didn't look like he wanted to be around us, either.
He got out at Leavenworth, lurching to the stairs and almost falling out the door.

At the Larkin Street stop I saw a familiar figure slowly walking down the aisle. It was the alien donut man, in his blue parka, his white white hair glowing under the light.
There weren't many seats available, at least that I could see from where I was sitting.
I resolved that I'd give him my seat if he needed it, even if that meant we'd have an actual interaction instead of the quick glance, nod and wave we always exchanged when I passed by the donut shop.
It didn't come to that, though. He found a seat right before the accordion section of the bus.
He sat perfectly straight in his seat, his head and shoulders up and back.
Every now and then the crowd would shift and I'd catch a glimpse of his fine white hair against his pink scalp.
He got out at the corner near the donut shop and I pictured him shuffling up the street in the dark to the brightly lit store, where he would have his usual: a cup of coffee and two glazed donuts. He'd sit in his regular spot, of course, sit there until the sun came up or until he finished his coffee, whichever happened first.

Bus Report #589

2011-03-16T18:32:00.000-07:00

Tonight's commute home:

Across the aisle from me sat a man and his little daughter. The girl was around 3 years old, very cute with her hair all braided and barretted. She started grabbing at a bag of cheese puffs that her dad was trying to open for her.
"Hold on, G," the dad said, "man, dude, don't you be grabbing on those cheese puffs. Now you've spilled them, G. That's not right." And then he said, "When I was your age if we got cheese puffs we wouldn't have been all spilling them on the bus. Damn, that's our tax dollars cleaning that up."

A block away from Potrero an older man with torn jeans and a cane that didn't seem to do much for him shuffled to the back door and waited for the bus to stop.
"Thank you," he called up to the driver. "Thank you."
The driver was confused. "What are you thanking me for, sir?" he asked.
"For getting me where I need to go," the man said.
"Oh, all right, you're welcome," said the driver. "Just hang on until we get to the stop."

Bus Report #588

2011-03-16T07:55:00.000-07:00

This morning on the 22 Fillmore:

One man dug into his tote bag and took out a box of dental floss. He tore off a long piece and set to work flossing his teeth. I think I said, "God, that's disgusting," out loud instead of just thinking it.
I tried to look away but caught his reflection in the glass. I looked down at my hands instead.
A few minutes later, he hacked up what sounded like several ounces of phlegm. I didn't watch him do it.

Later, at Valencia (or 'Valensha' as the automated recording says) two men tried to get out through the back door after the driver had already shut it. One of them kept banging the door until the driver opened it for them.

The other man had fresh blood smeared over his nose and cheek, and a large patch of blood on the white part of his windbreaker. I know I wasn't the only person watching to see if he touched anything, so I could avoid it later.

Bus Report #587

2011-03-14T19:39:00.000-07:00

I don't think I ever wrote about this strange driver on the 33 line I had about a month ago.
He seemed normal enough at first, calling out stops and making everyone pay their fare, shooing people towards the back of the bus for a wheelchair passenger.
Our bus rode up through the Castro.
Did someone have a cat? There was a loud meowing sound coming from the front of the bus. I looked around to see if anyone had a cat carrier or anything like that. Nope.

It was then that I realized: Our driver was the one meowing, not a cat at all.

We hit Ashbury and the driver said, "Ashbury. Blueberry. Strawberry. Blackberry. Ashbury, folks."

On Haight Street we passed a street-ratty-looking girl enveloped in a cloud of pot smoke. The driver got on the PA again: "Someone's smoking that wacky tabaccy," he said. "Better not be smoking that stuff here."

He laughed, he babbled, he called out stops and made comments. No one seemed to be amused, though. I grinned at a man sitting a few rows ahead. He rolled his eyes back at me.

Has anybody else experienced this odd driver?

Bus Report #586

2011-03-08T09:10:00.000-08:00

On the sidewalk in front of the entrance to the Fillmore this morning: one stainless steel spoon, face up on the tile.

Hermann Street, near Church: two small speakers in blond wood cases, one large, brown, battered shoe.

16th and San Jose, behind the barbed wire fence: a large pink beanbag pillow with a beige dog's paw sewn on the side.

A few minutes later: I was halfway to work when a 22 Fillmore bus pulled up alongside me. My favorite driver, now on the later shift, flung open the doors just to say good morning to me.
I smiled and waved, and kept walking.

Bus Report #585

2011-03-03T09:27:00.000-08:00

I had a nightmare last night, and it was about Muni.
I dreamt I was babysitting for the newborn daughter of a friend of a friend.
I had the baby with me on the 22 Fillmore. She was asleep in her little carrier. Her diaper bag was right next to her.
At Potrero and 16th I decided to go run a few errands, but I'd let her sleep on the bus and after my errands I'd rejoin the bus a few stops later.
I got out, leaving the baby and her stuff on the seat.
When I caught up with the bus at Rhode Island and 17th a few minutes later, the baby was (predictably, yet alarmingly) gone.
No one knew where she was or who had taken her.
The driver suggested I try the lost and found.
Another passenger said I should call 311.
And of course the on-board video cameras were broken.

Bus Report #584

2011-02-24T09:03:00.000-08:00

Last night, feverish and foggy-brained while volunteering at a show at Bottom of the Hill. I managed to last most of the night but started to really feel sick and out of it before the headliners went on.
My manager and fellow volunteer took pity on me and told me I could go home, so I wandered outside to find my way back to the Richmond.
A cab stood idled in the bus stop, and I felt lucky as I went to get in.
"I'm on my break," the cabbie said, "so I can't take you."
"Fine," I said. I started towards the bus stop in front of the faded old Potrero Hill mural on Connecticut Street.
The image of OJ now completely obliterated, but I remember where it was.
The cabbie waved me back over. "I can take you to Potrero and 16th, you might have better luck over there," he said. "No charge."
I climbed in and rode with him to Potrero and 16th.
The neighborhood was quiet and empty except for a few people getting food at the McDonald's on the corner. I stood in the street and tried to hail another cab. I hailed anything with a light on, but the cabs, pizza delivery guys and regular Joes did not stop.
I was frustrated: sick, tired, cash in hand for a cab and a tip, and no one was stopping.
Fifteen minutes passed with no luck.
I saw a 22 Fillmore approaching, and decided to catch it, even though it meant a longer trip home.
I sat in the back of the bus with a trio of sleepy men.
The ride was fast, at least.
At Geary there were cabs dropping off and picking up people spilling out of the Fillmore.
As I crossed the street, a 38 Geary pulled up.
I didn't think I should argue, so I climbed in.

Bus Report #583

2011-02-23T16:23:00.000-08:00

This morning it took all my energy to haul my ass out of the house and across the street to the bus stop.
NextBus predicted a 38 Geary bus in 11 minutes or 37 minutes.
I took my chances and walked up to the next stop where I knew I could catch a Limited bus (hopefully) sooner.
When a Limited did show up, it was already crowded. I sat between a tired-looking woman with a messy ponytail and a man with a new yellow and green messenger bag.
We flew down Geary and I got out at Fillmore to catch the 22.
I was the only person waiting in the stop when I got down there.
A few minutes later, a regular I haven't seen in a long time (years, I think!) walked by.
"I thought that was you," he said, smiling. "Been a while."
I nodded, said, "Nice to see you."
He said something else but by then he was already out of earshot and I didn't hear him.
I was listening to music and lost track of time, but soon noticed that it was getting much lighter out and the bus still hadn't arrived. I looked at my watch. The bus I usually caught was late. 20 minutes late.
Several other passengers showed up and we all took turns stepping in to the street to look for the bus. Nothing.
I was annoyed but not much. Because I knew that my favorite 22 driver, who had recently switched to the later route, was bound to be on his way.
Five minutes later the 22 came into view.
I knew it was my favorite driver the minute I saw the bus lurch out of the Sutter Street stop and pull in to traffic.
When he stopped to let us on he stopped right in front of me.
"Morning, darlin'," he said with a smile.
"Morning," I replied.
The bus was full of regulars. Shirley, her friend, the big guy, the Roche Bobois guy, and several middle school kids I hadn't seen in a while (man, those kids grow fast!)
As the bus approached my stop, several people from the back of the bus came forward to wait by the back door. I reached over and pulled the signaler. A man standing above me smiled and said, "Thank you."
"You're welcome," I said.
We got out of the bus and I went for my coffee.

Bus Report #582

2011-02-22T22:08:00.000-08:00

Crowded 2 Clement bus tonight, and no one seemed inclined to move to the back of the bus.
"Excuse me, excuse me," I said, working my way back to what looked to be a free seat near the back door. No one even tried to move, so what could I do? I pushed. I elbowed. I said to the man sitting in the aisle seat, "mind if I sit?"
He stared at me blankly and moved a quarter of an inch, so that I had to climb over him to get into the seat. He got out at the next stop.
The bus emptied out when we hit Japantown.
Someone in front of me was reading a book I was recently told was horrible.
In the back of the bus, two overly made-up ladies talked about how much fun their shopping trip had been earlier that day. They both wore jeans and sweatshirts but had way too much makeup on - as though they'd gotten makeovers or something. Maybe they had.
My new seatmate pecked away at her phone. She almost missed her stop. The man standing next to her almost hit her in the head with his backpack.
The bank clock on California near Spruce flashed the time, 6:30 PM, and the temperature, 50 degrees Fahrenheit. I wondered if we would really get any snow this weekend. I wouldn't mind.
Clement Street was busy: cars looking for parking, lines out front Burma Star, the smell of fried snacks wafting out of Genki Crepes. I hopped out at Eighth and crossed the street to go to the library.
On my way home I passed the donut shop. The Alien Donut Man sat at his usual spot with his two plain donuts and his cup of coffee. I stole a glance at him, my usual not so subtle goggle-eyed stare.
He saw me and slowly nodded his head, raised his hand in a delicate wave.
I waved back and looked away.

Bus Report #581

2011-02-10T09:18:00.001-08:00

This morning the traffic reports mentioned a fatal accident at Geary and Arguello, necessitating bus reroutes for the 33 and the 38.
So close to home, I thought, and so sad. Because fatal is fatal no matter what happened.
I walked out to catch the 38 a few minutes early. I wanted to make sure if the reroute was causing delays that it wouldn't be a problem for me.
The bus came on time and we booked it down an eerily silent Geary.
At Third Ave. I could see the flashing lights of police cars up ahead. They had Arguello Our bus took a right on Third, Left on Anza, Right on Stanyan.
Everyone tried to see what was going on, but the street was quiet and empty two blocks from the accident.
We kept going.

Bus Report #580

2011-02-08T08:45:00.000-08:00

The man sat a few seats away from me. It was an early morning 38 Geary, still a little dark out, no more than a handful of us on the bus.
He had a lion's mane of yellow hair, a mustache and a beard stained a darker yellow. He wore a pea green fleece from the Monterey Aquarium and jeans so dirty they weren't blue anymore. His brown work boots were caked with mud. The soles were worn almost all the way down.
He clutched a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his shaking hands. I watched him lift the cup to his mouth to sip. I think I was holding my breath, hoping he didn't spill it. Steam emanated from the cup and the coffee looked hot enough to warrant the warnings printed on the lids.
The man had vein-blue tattoos that covered his exposed arms and hands. He had two gold rings on his right hand. They might have been class rings or something similar.
They seemed too gaudy for who he was now, though at some point they might not have been.
He had the puffy red face of a longtime alcoholic. Squinty eyes that seemed to stare at nothing.

Bus Report #579

2011-02-07T18:01:00.000-08:00

Harmony reigned on the 22 and 38 tonight.

A bottle blonde, tattoo-sleeved mom and her beautiful smiling baby got on at Mission and sat next to an elderly gentleman. Two minutes later the old man was cooing and making kissy faces at the baby, who squealed with delight. The mom and the old man talked about parenting, and everyone around them seemed to have a smile on their face.

An art student with a large easel shared a seat with a revolving cast of teenagers. The kids all stole looks at the sketches clipped to the easel.

I got on a crowded 38 at the Geary and Fillmore stop. In front of me a tourist stared at his map, finally asking for help from the headphones-wearing kid next to him. The kid with the headphones took the map and traced our route with his finger. He looked at the tourist and held up three fingers and said, "You want Third Avenue."
We hit Third and the tourist didn't get up. The kid jumped up and yelled up to the driver, "Hold on one more minute man, one more minute," and he gestured for the tourist to get out because this was his stop.
Outside, the tourist waved to the kid and the kid waved back.

The woman sitting across from me was reading a familiar, beloved book: Fae Myenne Ng's book, Bone. Bone is a beautiful book and is a must read for anyone who likes reading about our city. Put it on the list.

I got out a few blocks later, saw my tax man dressed as Uncle Sam, shilling for business.
"Looking good," I said.
"Well, I've gotten a lot of offers for the suit but that's about it so far," he said.
I laughed and wished him luck, and went home.

Bus Report #578

2011-02-03T07:55:00.001-08:00

This morning I was running a few minutes late. Blame KQED public radio, or blame my unwashed dishes from last night.
I waited to cross Geary to wait at the bus stop. I could see a 38 at the light a block away. My light changed and I crossed the street. The 38 pulled up a moment later but the driver didn't see me right away and he drove past the stop. I waved to him and he eventually stopped half a block later. I ran to catch up.
"Thanks a lot," I said, flashing my fast pass at him.
We sped down Geary and got to Fillmore in less than ten minutes. I waited in the dark for the 22. No one was out and there were very few cars. Strange.
The bus arrived a few minutes later, driven by a new, humorless man who has yet to win me over.
I sat towards the back of the bus and cracked a window, closed my eyes and listened to music.
As we passed through the Castro/Mission (Misastro? Castrission?)I could smell smoke from this morning's two fires. I hoped everyone was okay and that they could get back into their apartments soon.
16th and Mission was a deserted plaza. The public toilet door was stuck open, but there was no one inside.

Bus Report #577

2011-02-02T22:35:00.000-08:00

On a crowded 22 Fillmore tonight, listening to music and zoning out. The bus stopped at Church and Market and several new passengers pushed towards the back of the bus. One of those passengers was Carmen, who I haven't seen since before Christmas.
"Here's your seat," I said, getting up for her.
"No, no, you sit, I'm not old," she said.
"I know you're not old, but I've been sitting all day," I told her. "Please."
She sat down and we talked, catching up on everything we've missed the past couple of months.
It was fun to see her. We talked about the friendly 22 driver who recently switched shifts, and tried to remember the name of another driver, a woman who always has her hair done and always looks so put together.
We kept the conversation going when we got out the bus and switched to a 2 Clement. There was an empty seat and I insisted she take it.
I said goodbye at my stop and got out, headed for home.
My neighbor Dennis was going to the corner store and he stopped to talk.
"I couldn't help but notice you in C's office last night, do you know him?" he asked.
"Well, we're neighbors," I said. Dennis is harmless but not someone who needs to know all my business.
Dennis told me he sometimes stops in to talk politics with C. We agreed that C. was a nice guy and a good addition to the neighborhood. I finally said, "I don't want to keep you," and bid him a good night before going home.

Bus Report #576

2011-02-02T10:14:00.000-08:00

The other day I had just settled in to my seat on the 38 when a woman got on and tried to slip into the seat across from me.
She had a few bags with her from various neighborhood stores. She started to sit, the bus pulled out of the stop and into traffic, and the woman started to fall towards the floor, her bags flying in the air and her arms still loaded down by the bag's weight.
It was a curious thing, because I swear it felt like it was a slow-motion, five-minute kind of fall. I leaned forward and caught her left elbow, and helped her regain her balance.
She smiled and said thanks.

Bus Report #575

2011-01-21T09:11:00.000-08:00

This morning was my 22 Fillmore driver's last morning on our route.
I got in the bus and smiled at him and said, "It's your last day, isn't it? It's been fun, we'll miss you."
He extended his hand and we shook, and I wished him good luck and went to sit down.
The rest of the ride he held court, telling the regulars it was his last day, shaking hands, even getting some hugs from the older ladies.
This is the kind of Muni I want every day.

Bus Report #574

2011-01-19T22:00:00.000-08:00

I had a meeting downtown tonight, so I got on the 10 Townsend and sat by the back door.
In the front of the bus there was a young girl, I'm guessing mid-teens, trying to wrangle a sweet little baby who was climbing around on the seats.
The girl had her stroller parked next to her, but the movement of the bus made it shift and tilt and almost fall.
The girl tried to grab her wiggly daughter and the stroller rolled away from her.
I got up and quickly went to sit across from her, grabbing the stroller and steadying it so it wouldn't zoom away.
The girl, who was now on the phone trying to find someone to pick her up at BART in the east bay, mouthed a 'thank you' to me and I nodded.
She eventually got the brakes down. She flashed me a thumbs' up and I went back to my original seat.

Later, after the meeting, I got on the 38 Geary downtown. The bus wasn't very crowded, but it was slow because we were right behind a couple of electric buses for a few blocks.
In Union Square a pair of twitchy, trash bag and duffel bag carrying guys got on the bus. One of them pushed his way to an empty seat in the back of the bus. He called out to his friend to "Stay up there."
His friend, perhaps his brother (they were both tall and skinny, with greasy, stringy blond hair), was in bad shape. He didn't seem to have any teeth, he might have been mute (he didn't make a sound at all, instead he waved and mouthed things to the other guy), and he couldn't sit still. He flapped his hands and picked at the scabs on his face.
It was very sad. I wondered if he was autistic or delayed in some way, on top of what must have been a long, hard relationship with hard drugs and tough living.
From the back of the bus, the man's friend occasionally yelled up to him to stay seated. The man would look up and try to see his friend through the crowd, then he would wave and flap and pick and retreat back in to his own world.
They got out at Third Ave. and camped out in the bus shelter. Last I saw them, they were lighting cigarettes and sitting on the uncomfortable bus shelter bench.

Bus Report #573

2011-01-19T08:31:00.000-08:00

I got on the 22 this morning and the driver, my favorite 22 Fillmore driver, touched my arm and started to say something. I took off my headphones.
"Sweetheart, this is my last week on this route," he said. "I'll be driving the bus after this one."
"Oh no!" I said. I squeezed his shoulder. "We'll miss you. You've been great."
"Thank you, thanks," he said.
The end of an era, but hopefully our new driver will be just as friendly and thoughtful.

Bus Report #572

2011-01-18T13:07:00.000-08:00

Back home after a week away and everything feels the same.
I sleepwalked through my commute yesterday morning. My jacket and boots were unnecessary, it was too warm for them, but I wore them anyway. The boots, used to ice and snow, felt wrong against the dry concrete sidewalk.
The man sitting across from me on the 38 grinned at everyone who got on. He held a brown slice of apple in his left hand and occasionally took bites of it. His other hand controlled a metallic purple igadget.
At Fillmore I waited in my usual spot, alone. Everyone else had the day off, I supposed. Fillmore was silent and dark and the fog made everything look soft and out of focus. Dreamlike.
Then the bus arrived, the driver (my favorite 22 driver) pulled up right in front of me and threw the door open.
"Well hello there," he said, smiling his big smile.
"Nice to see you sir," I said.
And we're back.