... or
"Why the 30 Stockton Makes Me Want to Vomit"I'm down to my last 2 weeks of living and working in this beautiful state and its crown jewel, the city of San Francisco.
As I sit at my desk, somewhere at the farthest end of North Beach, I know that there are tourists milling about Fisherman's Wharf, checking their free maps of the city and planning their excursions for the day. I can almost hear them from my office window.
"Ooh," they will say. "How about we go over to Ghirardelli Square?" Or, "Cable Cars! They look just like on TV!"
And then there's the classic "I've always wanted to visit China Town! How do we get there?"
This is where I'm an expert.
You see, over the last two weeks, I've been riding a terrible lurching beast through the swarming fetid heart of Chinatown on a daily basis. That beast is known as the 30 Stockton Muni line, and it is the main artery through the city from Mission Bay to North Beach. If you're a suburbanite tourist who's not used to public transportation, get ready to be doused in a steamy hot bucket of real city life.
You climb aboard the deceptively empty bus at Townsend St, behind the Safeway. Settle into your seat... go on, get cozy. Think of the dizzying number of asses that have previously warmed the seat you're occupying.
Hopefully, your bus lurches through the next few stops without incident. By the time you arrive at 3rd and Bryant streets, the seats are all gone and the bus has become a standing room only affair. As the bus careens toward Mission St., someone might suddenly cut in front of the bus, causing your driver to slam viciously on the brakes... Your fellow riders stumble, some of them fall into the laps of others, and a low grumble sweeps through the passengers like a roll of discontented thunder. This is your first glimpse at how desperate and dangerous the situation could become if the shit hit the fan.
Now we've arrived at 3rd and Market St. This is where the real fun begins.
An impossible number of people crowd onto the bus. They stream into the passenger compartment like liquid, filling up every available crevice. Your provincial love of personal space is relegated to the status of a fond memory as you become acutely aware of the people pressing against you from every side.
Let's meet some of those people, shall we?
1. Cuddly Asian Grandmother.
Let me first say that the pic above is representative of Cuddly Asian Grandmother, and not a portrait of the real deal.
She tottered aboard, and aimed for the open seat next to me. As she was nestling herself in, she placed her hand on my knee... which I was cool with because I didn't want the withered old being to collapse into a pile of dust. Finally secure, she poked and prodded my arm, and, after softening me up sufficiently, laid her head on my shoulder, mumbling something unintelligible in what I can only assume was a Chinese dialect.
I'm normally not a very tolerant person, and, in this circumstance, my discomfort was peaking. So, I gently decided to try to scoot over a little bit and assert my personal space. But, Cuddly Asian Grandmother would have nothing of it. She patted me sternly, said something in her language that sounded reassuring, and lay her head back down.
I let her stay there, despite the fact that she smelled of shrimp chips and cigarette smoke. I simply didn't know what else to do. She had made me her pillow.
A couple of days later, Cuddly Asian Grandmother boarded the bus again. She didn't sit next to me this time, but she recognized me, smiled, and waved at me.
2. Snot Boy
Hwoooork. Hwoooonk... slurp... Shhluuurp.
He's about 13. He's listening to his iPod, ignoring the world. His hair is spiky, his expression sullen.
Sniffle... shnooork... slurp.
His nose and upper lip are wet. Every 5 to 7 seconds, he snorts back a wad of phlegm. You are sitting right next to him.
He wipes his nose with his hand, and rubs it on the window, leaving a semi opaque smear.
Shhhnooorrrnk... shnooork... shplut.
With the same hand, he touches your arm as he gets up to leave the bus. No one takes his spot for a moment.
Until suddenly...
3. Mr. Sweat-stain
Here's to you, Mr. Sweat-stain. You are not only disgusting to look at, but you smell like French Onion Soup made with Ass Broth. I'm seated, he's standing. Right in front of me. As he holds on to the upper handrails, his glistening armpit hair hovers just above my eye level. Please, Mr. Bus Driver... please don't slam on the brakes and cause this guy to stumble... Awww... no, no, NO!!
4. Angry Drunk Camo Thug
Just outside of the Loving Hut, a man leaps through the back doors of the bus. He smells like he's been marinating in malt liquor for at least a week, and his camouflage gear isn't hiding him from anybody. This is mainly because he's yelling at a frightened looking woman outside the bus, standing on the curb. "Peace, bitch!" he calls cheerily as the bus pulls away from the stop.
Abruptly, and inexplicably, the camo-garbed man vomits into the stairwell near my feet. He then begins to pound loudly on the back door that he entered through and vomited on only moments before, yelling "BACK DOOR! BACK DOOR, muffucka!!"
When he realizes that the driver isn't planning on opening the back door, he charges toward the front of the bus, tracking puke down the aisle, and threatening the bus driver's life if he doesn't stop.
Total time he spent on the bus: 90 seconds.
Total time he will spend in my memory: Forever.
5. The Horrifying Mutant
Ok... I know. I'm cruel and heartless. What if it were me? What if I were born with some terrible disease?
The unfair fact is that I'm one of the majority that seems to have lucked out. My limbs are all in the right place and in the right quantity. My face isn't obscured by pustules or abnormalities. I am, for all intents and purposes, normal.
Consequently, when somebody with a hideous deformity plants their shambling, barely human form next to me, I get a bad case of the wiggins. I don't want them to touch me for fear that I, too, will sprout a cornucopia of lumps, bumps and cysts from my skin. I don't even want to breathe the same air, due to my terrible and irrational fears of contagion.
But, riding the 30 Stockton has forced me to deal with these fears and reactions.
Why, just this morning, I was face to face with a sizeable purple neck lump that was peeking from under the sweater of an elderly man standing in front of me. I coped with the horrible deformity invading my personal space by imagining that the lump was one of the California Raisins, humming "Heard It Through the Grapevine" as it hitched a ride on the old man's neck.
Silly Raisin... You don't belong in Chinatown! You're a dried up fruit!
The majority of the crowd usually disembarks somewhere before Columbus and Green Streets, leaving behind them the aroma of flatulence, and several types of exotic food. I get off the bus, myself, at Columbus and Bay Streets, inhaling deeply the fresh, somewhat salty air and wondering what communicable disease I've picked up from the throng.
A family of classically caucasian middle class tourists has climbed off at the same stop, and they're each frantically patting themselves down, making sure that they're still in possession of wallets, jewelry, bus transfers, etc. They have a slightly shell shocked look about them. I don't think they'll be making the return journey through Chinatown by bus.
I trudge off to work, knowing that I get to ride that Magical Mystery Tour at least three or four more times before my tour of duty in San Francisco is over. Can't wait until 5:30 comes and I get to see all of my new friends on the 30 Stockton again.
