F Car Adventures*

I am waiting at the F car stop outside of the Embarcadero station. The waiting platform is an island in the middle of Market Street, such that you have to cross the road in order to get there. Oftentimes people emerge from the BART station and then deftly run across the street, defying oncoming traffic, in order to avoid waiting at the crosswalk, located ten feet away.

On this particular morning as I’m waiting on the platform, I hear a woman scream something inaudible and then behind me, a man in his car is yelling out of his open window: “Yeah, fuck you lady! Fat ass!... Fat ass!” I guess he said “Fat ass” twice for added emphasis or in case she didn’t hear it the first time. My guess is that this woman had crossed the street and this oncoming car almost hit her, causing her to curse at the driver, who then felt the need to roll down his window and curse back.

It might have been more effective and dramatic if the car then sped away, leaving said “Fat Ass” (his words, not mine) in a cloud of smoke. But instead the car slows and stops at a red light, right behind me, when Fat Ass approaches my side of the platform. I know it’s her because she is still muttering angrily and slightly out of breath. She’s wearing this big puffy metallic silver jacket and has a long stringy brown pony tail with several unnecessary barrettes pinning the back of her hair. Excessive red lipstick accentuates a set of yellowed teeth that sit like a crooked stumpy fence in her mouth. She stands right next to me. As she turns her head away for a few seconds, I take the opportunity to inch away from her noiselessly. She turns her head back and doesn’t seem to notice the increased distance between us — about 3 inches. She paces around, apparently still upset about the run-in with the driver (who, as I mentioned, is still sitting at a red light right behind us).

The light turns green and I guess the driver says something to the woman as he drives away, because then she mutters back to him “Fuck you, bitch. Yeah, peace, bitch” or something to that effect. Is that why she was waiting on my end of the platform, pacing around like a caged lion? Was she waiting for her opportunity to say something mean to him before he drove away? Is that the best she could come up with? Why did they both feel the need to, in effect, say “goodbye” to each other?

I reflect on the absurdity of the situation as the F car finally approaches. I board and choose an unoccupied two-seater. As I sit staring straight ahead while the rest of the passengers board the car, I quickly realize my folly in choosing an empty two-seater as Big Metallic Silver Jacket Lady approaches me. I know she is planning to sit next to me so I instinctively smash the side of my body against the window, thereby creating a few more centimeters of space on the seat. She plops down next to me. I let her big shiny jacket ooze into the limited space. Clearly she and her jacket are taking up 3/4 of the seat (rather than 1/2). I try very hard to be still and concentrate on staring out the window. I make sure to not make any sudden movements. I try to blend into the background and take short, quiet breaths, so as not to awaken the volatile volcano seated next to me.

She takes out her newspaper and opens it up, thereby causing her poofy metallic arms to span. Her right arm is pretty much on top of my bag, which is serving as a makeshift arm rest/barrier. Her jacket is very shiny. My neck starts to strain as I keep my head locked at a 90-degree angle and stare fixedly out the window.

The ride along the Embarcadero is mostly uneventful, except for one instance when a few passengers try to exit through the front door of the crowded car. As they pass through the crowds, my seatmate mutters “Hey, watch your bag, lady.” She sounds irritated and offended. I wonder what she is reading and notice that she is holding a blue pen. My eyes dart quickly toward her newspaper. She is reading the Classified section and circling ads. I do not let my eyes rest on the page for fear that I will get swallowed in a dark cloud of puffy metallic rage.

Finally the next stop is Pier 39. Dark Puffy Cloud reaches over me and tugs on the line to indicate that she’s getting off. We arrive at our stop and passengers begin to exit the car. She slowly puts away her newspaper and pen as I wait for her to get up and move. I do not dare make any sudden movements that would communicate impatience. Indeed, if she had caused us both to miss our stop I would not have indicated any emotion or movement, despite the fact that I was running late for work. She finally gets up and walks toward the front of the car as I gingerly follow. I exit the car, inhale, then exhale — my first deep breath all morning.

*An alternate title for this post: "Why I Would Have Excelled at the Milford School"