Bay Area Sketchbook: Strangers on a Train

Encounter on BART.  © µ 2018,  ≈ 1.1K words

    ‟You're a selfish asshole!” the young woman said, her face a couple of feet from mine on a BART car.  She had raised her voice but probably wasn't screaming; in noisy environments, the hearing impaired can't always tell the difference.  It was 8 am and the train was packed so tightly that the standing passengers couldn't shift weight from foot to foot without brushing against someone else.  Unless they were standing near me, in which case they likely brushed against my bicycle.  It was the bicycle that had set her off.

    BART does not allow bikes on crowded cars, but such cars are the only type available on San Francisco-bound trains at the Fruitvale station during commute hours. In my experience, morning commute hours start before 6 am, and last at least 3 hours.  My sub-compliant strategy is that if I can squeeze onto the car, then I can thread my way to the so-called "bicycle area," and strap my bike to the horizontal bar.  Once in position, everyone will have barely enough room, not too much worse off than before my entry.

    But on the morning of the young woman, I pushed the envelope. I did manage to shoe-horn into a full car, but was too embarrassed to ask people to let me through to the  bike area on the other side. So there I was, stranded in the middle of the car, hanging onto a strap with one hand and holding up my bike with the other.  Uncomfortable, and so was everyone around me.  A friendly twentyish guy sporting a curly black beard, and wearing cargo shorts and a square Jewish cap, asked if he could lean against my bike.  Certainly.

    Then the young woman emerged from the mass of passengers and confronted me.  She was attractive, her white a shade paler than mine, and well-dressed and well-coiffed in a proper, corporate way. Couldn't tell at a glance whether she was more likely to be a receptionist or an executive, but clearly she was not to be trifled with.

    ‟Can't you see there's no room for you?” she asked, voice quivering with indignation.

    ‟I was hoping to get to the bike area, but there are too many people.”

    ‟Doesn't that tell you something?” she said sarcastically.  ‟You should have waited for another train!”

    ‟I'm supposed to teach a class at CCSF.”

    ‟Then wake up earlier!” she said, and that's when she called me a selfish asshole.  To little effect.  The people around us were absorbed with their phones, or pretended to be.  And somewhere along the years my capacity for anger was much diminished. 

    ‟Sorry you feel like that,” I said softly.  ‟Tell me, how did you get to BART today?”

    ‟I took the bus,” she said, not to be out greened.

    ‟Your bus had less traffic to contend with because I rode my bike.”

    Then the Jewish cap guy said something to the young woman I couldn't catch.  But if he was taking her side, wouldn't he be addressing me instead?  The young woman tried to resume her attack, but another passenger, a 50ish oriental woman with a downcast, comprehending face, leaned toward us and said something else to her that I couldn't hear.  Maybe it was "don't waste your breath talking to selfish assholes," but my antagonist looked stifled, miffed.

    I said "would it help if you knew that I pinched a nerve in my lower back, and riding a bike is the only way I can get around comfortably?" She stared past me stonily.  We'd come so far so fast: just met, and already we weren't on speaking terms.  Then the train pulled into the West Oakland station.

    The door opened behind me and a knot of would-be passengers stood there, not even attempting to enter.  No space for them, and all because of me, absolutely nobody needed to point out.  I raised my own voice to address the surrounding passengers: "If I could just get over to the bike area it would solve many problems." And wordlessly they made way for me, most without looking up from their phones; I put my bike against another that was there first; the new passengers boarded successfully; everyone actually had MORE room than they had before; there were now several people standing between me and the young woman who had denounced me. I love you, Northern California.

    Our train passed under the Bay, disgorged scores of passengers at the Embarcadero Station.  Ahhh, room.  The young woman took a seat on the opposite side of the train, and pecked at her phone disconsolately.  I opened my laptop, but couldn't concentrate on my lesson plan.

    Because I wanted to comfort her.  Hadn't she humiliated herself, wasting energy by lashing out at me, when she could have solved the problem easily by helping me get where I needed to go? Maybe she worked producing meditation tapes, and distancing herself from anger was a source of pride.  No, that was nuts, she wouldn't be feeling bad when the rulebook was clearly on her side.  She might well be texting a complaint, portraying herself as the only one on that cowed car willing to speak up against my depredations.  A crackdown on insolent two-wheeled commuters might ensue.

    Which I could prevent simply by crossing the train and apologizing for my part in our misadventure.  Then she would tell me who she was, by way of apologizing for her part.  Me, ‛terribly sorry, you were right, I miscalculated, should have waited for the next train.’  Her, ‛Where I work, a woman was fired because she tore her jeans on her way to work; so when your wheel touched my pantsuit, I lost it.’ Or maybe ‛my girlfriend left me, and I lay in bed for a week, calling in sick, thinking about suicide.  Today was my first day back, and when I saw you and your bike, it felt really great to fantasize about killing someone besides myself. Like, maybe it means I'm recovering?!’

    My turn again.  ‛In recent months, since I pinched the nerve, I've accomplished many wonderful, difficult things.  Like shopping for groceries, cleaning house; remaining standing and calm on crowded BART trains that stalled under the Bay, while half-hearing crackly announcements promising that our train would be moving again shortly.  And didn't miss a class, not one, or consciously wince in front of a student.  Do I not deserve a medal, the coveted Seniors' Prize for Keepin' Goin'?’

    Satisfied with my world again, I focused on my lesson plan.  The young woman was gone when I looked up again at Balboa Park Station.

-  µ   2018