TXTNLY

I am fairly sure I have spent a rather sizable chunk of my life on public transportation in San Francisco, better known as MUNI. SF is a town where having a car can be way more trouble than its worth. I rode it as a youth, and as a commuter when I lived there last. I have ridden almost every line at all hours of the day and night and been witness to such a cross section of humanity, that I should bee offered a sociology degree. I have seen folks with live chickens, folks trimming mole hairs, folks that smell like pee, yuppies, perverts, homeless… its just too big a list to make. I am also a freak magnet. That portly Armenian dude with the lazy eye and the diaper hinting out from the waist of his pants – oh, yeah – he’s not only going to sit next to me, he’s gonna wanna chat. For a while, I would try to repel the riders of Bellvue by out freaking them. It was an extension of a self defense technique I had adopted to ward off scary characters in scary neighborhoods. If you look scarier, bordering on insane, then folks tend to just leave you alone. This does not work with bus freaks. In fact it may make things worse. I tried everything, from the mundane: muttering under my breath, to the truly inventive: allowing a small section of string to dangle inexplicably from the corner of my mouth. It doesn’t work, though it was fun trying to come up with ideas. I have a lot of bus stories, but I humbly submit these three as a cross section of that wonderful soul vessel known simply as MUNI…

The Good.

It was a rather busy night for the 38 Geary line. I had just gotten off of the swing shift at the newspaper and was facing my regular walk through the tenderloin to Union Square to take this bus cross town all the way from the bay to the ocean. Its about a 45 min ride at midnight as there isn’t much traffic. Still, the busses were usually more empty at this time of night. I had paid my dollar and had just settled in to another long hour of staring absent-mindedly out the window. Something about the drone of those diesel engines an really hypnotize the tired worker bee. But despite the glaze over my eyes and the psychic coccoon I was weaving around myself, it always pays to keep at least half an eye out for the comings, goings and activities of your fellow riders. 

It was that half eye that caught them as soon as they got on. I think sometimes there is an energy about people that is instinctual, and anything that may pose a threat instantly registers, and man was it registering with these three. It was as if they were deliberately trying to send off a “you are about to die vibe”. They were three fairly strong looking black men, that just kinda had the whole ex con feel to them. No spider web or teardrop tattoos or anything that was obvious, but its clear that they were tough, and trying to act even tougher. They walked slow up and down the aisle, staring people down, almost begging people to make eye contact. Eye contact is a funny thing in a big city, and it can go either way, but I had a sinking suspicion that I knew which way this was going to go. Women were doing that ‘clutch the purse, stare at the floor and think of jesus’ thing. Men were doing the same, sans purse. There was an instant, almost tangible mood amongst all the passengers thats something really bad was about to happen.

As the three walked down the aisle one stopped in front of an older gentleman, pointed his finger and said “I don’t know you” in a menacing tone. The second stopped in front a woman and said “And I don’t know you”. The third stopped in front of another passenger and said “Who are you?” They went to several people in turn, and made similar inquiries, finally stopping near me and asking “What’s YOUR name?” No one was responding to them, and I certainly wasn’t about to be the first, but before I could process just exactly what I was going to do next, something surreal happened.

In the awkward silence that followed that last pop quiz, they all drew together, back to back, in the center of the aisle and broke into a beautiful acapella motown-y version of “What’s Your Name”. This song branched into a medley of motown numbers, all sung in amazing three part harmony. They serenaded the whole, quite stunned, bus for a good third of the trip. When they, apparently, got to their stop the proceed to exit the bus backwards through the large articulated doors slowly as they hit their last notes. The song ended, the doors closed like a curtain and after a silent second, the whole bus erupted into applause. They stood on the side walk waving, and shouting things like “We love you!” and  ”Be kind to each other!”

At one moment I was about to be shivved for my empty wallet, the next I was being crooned to. I was not alone in the sensation that we as a whole had just been put through some sort of devious social experiment. I know that whole ‘judge a book by its cover’ deal is a bit on the cliché side of the saying supermarket, but I hold this story up at least as evidence that clichés are such for a reason. To this day I hold this experience in my heart whenever I am confronted by someone scary. This is not to say that I completely ignore my instincts. I guess its just kinda comforting to know that that gangster walking toward you, instead of roll you, just might knit you a scarf or something. Its humanity, and I need all the hope I can get.