Inbound on the 30 Stockton. We pull up to Pacific Avenue in Chinatown, and the old Chinese ladies with the pink bags pack themselves into the crowded bus like sardines. They seem to be arguing about something. I think one owes the other money.
As we pull away I try to keep my balance in the center aisle, but someone is pushing me from behind. They want me to move forward, but there is no more room. The people in front of me are trying to push back, but the driver will not allow anyone to cross the yellow line. I lean to the side for breathing room and almost knock off a man’s glasses, but he sees me and gets out of the way.
The bus stops at Washington, Sacramento, Sutter. The brakes become French horns for bad dancers on crosswalks. Hydraulics pop letting off steam as the doors slide open and closed. Lose a person, gain a person, and so on. Kids sneak on the back entrance without feeling the least bit bad about it.
At Geary, a lady yells for the driver to hold the bus so she can get off, but he does not hear her. She will have to get off at the next stop and walk back. As we go across Market the man standing beside me reaches up to hold on to the upper part of the bus pole, and his armpit rubs across my face, leaving traces of sweat on my nose.
“Step back!” says the driver. And the cattle herd squeezes tighter, harder.
There’s something crawling across the back of my neck, but the bus is so crowded, it’s impossible for me to scratch it. The Chinese ladies keep yelling, someone keeps touching me, the bus keeps bumping, I keep losing my balance, and I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
Something inside me is breaking down. Maybe it’s from the lack of oxygen. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the people. I don’t really know, but I feel like I’m losing something I might never get back. Maybe it’s my dignity. Maybe it’s my sanity. Maybe it’s my money. Maybe it’s my time. Maybe it’s my faith. Whatever it is, the act of losing it hurts in every part of my body and my mind, and all I want is for everything to stop.
Then we stop at 4th and Market, the doors slide open, and there you are.
I can barely make you out as you move behind arms and heads and torsos like a deer running through the forest. I put you together as best I can, like a puzzle with the pieces turned upside down. You’re approximately five and a half feet tall, you have dark brown eyes, olive complexion, and died dark red hair just longer than shoulder length, but you already know that. What you don’t know is that the clack of your short pink boots silences the maddening sounds of the 30 Stockton, the smell of your shampoo consumes the smell of the sweat on my nose, and suddenly I can no longer think of myself.
We pull up to Mission Street, Howard, Folsom. Little by little, the bus clears out, and as each passenger leaves, I can see another part of you. I can breathe. Your eyes meet mine, and you smile and look down. I know what you’re thinking. I wish this creepy guy would stop staring at me, but you already know that. What you don’t know is that I am not looking at you because I want to fuck you. I am looking at you because I want to thank you, but I am not going to.
You will never know what you were for me at what could have been one of the saddest moments of my life. You will go on about your own life in your own world as a graphic designer or psychiatrist or college professor or whatever it is you do. You will have dinner parties with friends, have Sunday brunches with lovers, smile at the sun, and laugh at the moon. You will ride the 30 Stockton down 4th Street to wherever it is you go with your own concerns and your own stories to tell. You might think things like this happen every day, but they don’t. Not in my life anyway, but you will never know that, because you will never read this. You will never ever know me, and you will never know of the brilliant second I almost cried when I wrote about you.
BB
