Some days, transit’s a breeze.* My train arrives promptly, I’m able to grab a seat, and I don’t suffer the 40-minute trip with some dude’s crotch in my face. Other days? Ooooooh, boy: watch out. If the L doesn’t get me down, the F steps up to the plate.
As today: after disembarking the L, I waited almost 20 (yes, 20: barbaric) minutes for the F to arrive. When it did, it appeared to be crammed with tourists. I say appeared because the car wasn’t actually full — the tourists, in typical form, were just spread out, occupying way more than their Allotted MUNI Space. After running to the back door and getting my leg caught as the door closed (yowch), I crammed in amongst those clad in Old Navy and Jansport.
At Market and First, I snagged a seat(!) The bitchery ends there, right? WRONG! I’d been seated for no more than two minutes when two tween boys** positioned themselves right in front of me. Sure, they exchanged the same commentary that on some mornings I find charming and on others I find distasteful; they expressed enthusiasm for the wax museum and The Rainforest Cafe. But that’s not what unnerved me.
Nope. What made me cross was that these lit’l dudes kept dropping shit on my feet — and lap. Duder one dropped his iPhone on the floor and nearly managed to tangle himself in my coat as he retrieved it. Duder two dropped his earbuds on my lap, not even pausing before snatching them back. Jesus! I’m not surprised by much, but interfacing with strangers’ laps? Without asking first? NO.
Of course, because these boyz were fiddling with their gadgets, they weren’t holding onto the railings. Consequently, every time the tram lurched, so too did the tweens. You know what happened then. Yes, they trod on my toes. Multiple times.
Fortunately, the car cleared out at Pier 33 (aka, OMG IS THIS WHERE WE GET OFF FOR THE ALCATRAZ TOUR? HONEY, I THINK THIS IS WHERE WE GET OFF FOR THE ALCATRAZ TOUR!). I had a few minutes to collect myself and wipe the glare off my face before entering my office. But don’t let my currently peaceful demeanor fool you — Tween boys, I’ma fuck with your shit the next time you wreck my commute.
PS: This morning’s ride had one interesting (positive?) trait: one of my fellow passengers was a deadringer for John Galliano.
*This statement might be overly optimistic. Revised: On a few rare occasions, commuting in the city has been less-than-awful.
**Is “tween” still a word?