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There’s almost no way to ride a public bus without pissing someone off. Sometimes the weather colludes with the buses, doing everything in its power to make sure the public passengers are sufficiently riled. Today was one of those San Francisco days when the gray wind awakens you during its battle with your plug-in heater for room jurisdiction. Yet by noon the fog has passed, taking the wind with it, and we’re left with stagnant sunshine and too many layers.
As I boarded the 38 Geary there were too few seats between all the sweaters, jackets and scarves. Backpacks ensconce extra seats as the high school kids ignore the elderly and handicapped placards; forcing the old women and men coming from the hospital and Chinatown to stand—nervously reaching for their purses and bags while trying to balance on the high handrails.
As always, a bottleneck occurs near the doors. There are some open seats but two are on either side of a homeless man who mutters to the air in front of him while violently flicking his fingers; and the other three are being occupied by an angry looking and insolent teenager whose iPod can be heard far down the aisle; continuing the message sent by his hip-hop clad gangly legs and lazily outstretched arms that take up the entire back row.
“Can you scoot over a bit?” I ask the teen. He looks up with surprise before sliding over. I sit down next to him and nudge him even farther into the corner seat; opening the rest of the row for my fellow standers. A woman teetering between a limp toddler hanging off her left arm and a folded stroller hooked over her right shoots me a grateful smile before collapsing into the other seat beside me.
“Still forced to sit in the back of a bus...Rosa Parks ain’t done nothing for us. Crackers still think they own this world...Bitch you just wait till my voice is heard.”
He’s looking out the window, but his reflection is staring at me. My anger is tempered by appreciation. I wonder if it’s original and whether it would piss him off more if I commended it. Instead, I pull out my Anais Nin and look down, trying to find my place within the book. The mother sitting next to me glances over and expels a protracted “mmmphuuughh,” angrily hoisting her toddler away from my seedy purlieus. I glance at the open page...LESBIAN, ANUS, SEX, PENIS, CLITORIS...not necessarily in that order, but repeated so often they jump ostensibly off the page and down your throat.
I close the book and redden. Claustrophobia snakes its way under my layers and through my skin, binding my chest with the ire coming from both sides. I switch my bus-riding tactic; pulling out my knitting and donning my headphones, I wipe my sweaty palms on the tangled yarn. I keep my music low, letting the boy’s lyrics intertwine with the beat of my bass. The maneuver does nothing to lessen the angst of my neighbors and at the next stop, the mother and her child disembark leaving behind an empty seat.
The bus has stopped at a private school and flocks of teenaged girls gather round. Knee-high socks are pushed down, blue vests are molted, and plaid skirts are raised by the inch. Spying the teenage boy to my right, three of the girls begin twittering, craning their heads to see if he’s looking. The boy is oblivious, but the girls try harder. Flipping their hair and laughing too loud they display all of their plumage to the boy. iPods and phones are pulled out, one lifts another’s hair from her neck and blows while the third threatens to pour her water down her shirt, “Its so damn hot!” they shriek.
The boy opens one of the sliding windows but never looks at the girls. Disappointed they turn their frustration elsewhere. “Look at Betty Crocker,” one laughs, jerking her thumb towards my knitting. The boy chuckles and the girls beam. Indignation broils within me and I try to dismiss it. “They’re just kids. I was the same way. No I wasn’t!” I battle within my head, but it’s settled—-I’m pissed. I continue knitting as, one by one; the teens get off at their respective stops.
The bus is nearly empty now. One of the girls is still aboard, sitting directly opposite of me. She stares openly at me and I glower back.
“Hey,” she says. But I ignore her, drumming my feet to my music.
“Hey!” It’s louder this time and she reaches forward and taps my knee. “What are you knitting?”
I sigh and pull down my headphones. “A scarf.”
“It’s pretty,” she replies and looks away. “So, um, how’d you learn to do that?”
“I dunno, I guess I just picked it up somewhere.” I’m looking hard at her, searching her face for her intentions. She gets up and sits down next to me, throwing her backpack and sweater into an open seat.
“Could you, I mean, can I see how you do it?” she asks.
“Yeah. Actually, I was going to start over anyways.” I unravel the scarf and smooth out the yarn. I hand her one end and I take up another. “So you start by looping this over and making a knot...” We’re both smiling and riding the bus...It’s almost a damn miracle.
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