A trembling man in a Jimi Hendrix sweatshirt calls his dog. On a phone, I mean—leaves a message with the speaker held away from his mouth like it’s a radio. “I’m coming home, Sonny! Did you eat your food? Did you drink your water? You be good! I’ll be home soon!”
"I do it every day," he explains to his seatmate, a blank-faced woman who didn’t ask. "So he knows I’ll be back."
(I’m reminded of this.)
"How was school today?"
—Eight-year-old girl, nose to the glass and the wispy-pink West Oakland sunset. “Some fun things happened and some not-fun things happened,” she continued. “Such as I spilled my backpack, and my stomach hurting, these kinds of things.”
"I should have bought Bitcoin when it first became available."
"I know. I’m not very liquid."
"In fact, I’m highly illiquid."
Cyclist #1, Commuter, moves gingerly to lean his bike against that of Cyclist #2, Roadie.
Roadie leaps to feet (yellow Mavics) in alarm. “Ummmm, actually, boss— I’ll just stand in between them. Mine’s, like, a different material.”
Ugh. From one spandex-sporting nerd to another: get over yourself, jackass; it’s still a freakin’ Fuji.
Forgive the lousy photo: that’s a cape, a scooter, and a giant Clipper card. I believe the costume is … super-commuter?
Lingering resentment from the strike softened substantially this morning by the train operator, who at Embarcardero welcomed his commuter cargo to San Francisco and instructed us, with all the benevolence of a parent at a grade-school curb, to “Make it a safe and productive day.”
I got “Excuse me, sir”-ed on the way to work and offered a seat on my way home. Unclear, then, whether I look male or pregnant, but I’m quite sure I’m retiring this sweater.
While BART is definitely not giving anyone that warm and fuzzy feeling, you know who is? Muni. Just look at …
I have a lo-oooot of BART rage to document today, of all days, obviously, but I’m gonna put it on hold for a minute and reblog because THIS IS MY FRIEND DOCTOR J. AND I AM SO STOKED FOR HER! (To get married, I mean; not to be on SF Weekly. Although that’s pretty rad, too.)
Doctor J. is the busiest girl in the world, rarely seen, but despite this has always been among the most dedicated cheerleaders for my assorted attempts at writing. And that—in addition to the fantastic public transit element to the proposal—is why this seems like a reasonable place for congratulations.
Much love and many good wishes, J. If this is how you bridesmaid, you’re going to make a hell of a bride.
(Note that I’m barefoot and she’s still rocking stilettos. My hero.)
… waking up to six text alerts for delayed trains and thinking, “Oh, good! BART’s working!”
It’s like one of those old Choose Your Own Adventure books: “The Mystery of the Stranded Commuter!” Except the answer is always “C.” “The BART strike has been delayed again! You are thrown into an (emotional) volcano.”
Yeah. I might as well reblog other reactions and recycle mine; this limbo doesn’t even have the entertainment value of novelty any more.
There’s at least one pro-strike BART commuter out there: he walked behind me across the mezzanine at Downtown Berkeley early this morning, pausing in his full-throated rendition of “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” to greet every station employee with “Stay strong, my man, they gotta crack soon!”
"It would be easier if her father were either around, or not around."
The woman is young, attractive, and fashionable, addressing a pair of co-workers who fit only the first third of that description and are deferring to her accordingly. The vaguest hint of social panic ringing their slightly too-wide eyes suggests that the child in this conversation may be news to them. “How old is your daughter?” asks one valiantly. Her tone is the same you use on puppies for “What kind of dog is that?”
"Ten months," the woman replies, reaching into her purse for a buzzing phone. "See, perfect example," she continues irritably. "I asked him if he could watch her Thursday and Friday and he just says, ‘Jenna’s staying with me.’ Well, does that mean yes or no? Are you asking me a question or telling me something? Because you can ask me a question, but I don’t know about telling me anything.”
"Jenna’s … your daughter?" ventures the coworker hesitantly.
"No," the young mother says.