Observations
When you commute by BART, you encounter many amazing sights.
Every day except Monday and Friday there is a man that greets me every morning at our favorite bench. He is a grandfatherly type man, with a grandfather smell. Not the rotten smell, but the grand wise smell that I always equated with my grandfather before he died. He has a wonderful smile, but speaks broken English. We bond over the fact that we travel the same time and the same train. And the fact that I never bring a jacket. The only thing we say to each other is "Good morning!" and "Cold!" But on Thursday when I said my usual "Good morning!" he reached out his hand. Looking at it confused, I slowly reached out my own. I was then pulled into a wonderful grandfather hug and kiss on my freezing cheek. I felt a rush to the spot. I smiled profusely with a "Ooh!" He then said, "Cold!" pointing at my short sleeves. I just laughed and gave my usual, "It will get warmer, don't worry." I will miss him when I finish my last week at work.
For the longest time, there was always a woman on the other side of the Castro Valley platform. She wasn't stunning in appearence. Actually, to most society's standards she was definitely not a Betty. She wore clothes that I would have loved to wear at work, but couldn't. Big, fluffy sweaters; t-shirt like undershirts to cover the areas not covered by the sweaters; Roomy jeans that hid the hideous shoes that pretended to be high heels. She also had the unfortunate gene of having very thin, short hair that flipped at the edges and showed her scalp. But she stood courageously on that side of the track where the wind makes your hair stand on end. And as she stood waiting for the train, she would pull out her make up bag and start putting on her make-up. Now, the phrase that would always enter in my judgement mind would be, "Oh Honey, that's not going to help you at all." She would glob on foundation on her already perfect complexion, making it more like a mask than it needed to be. Then smear big amounts of green on her lids to appear like she was going to visit the Ringly Brothers. Expand her lashes. Put on the ugliest shade of lipstick I had ever seen.
I thought she was beautiful. Unfortunately she hasn't been taking my train lately. Either she comes in early, or her summer job is done.
Every Wednesday my "grandfather" and I would also be joined by a gorgeous girl sitting in the corner of the bench. She would be reading some sort of book, hunched shivering in the corner. Sometimes the book was a classic. Sometimes it was trashy romance. Either way, she always sat looking nervously up every three minutes. Like the BART train would come without her noticing and she would miss it. She would sometimes look at me while I sipped at my mug observing the cars, but most of the time she would just look up in the direction of the track. It was not until her mother would always come up and say, "You forgot your coat again!" that I realized she was looking for her. She has stopped coming since school started.
Now, if anyone knows BART during commuter hours, you know there are always lines in front of the black blocks. The black blocks are supposed to be where the doors are. That is mostly true. Either way, there is always a line waiting. Now to normal commuters, the lines are not meant to be strict, rule-abiding things. A line is a line. It doesn't matter if you're in the front or in the back, you're not going to get a seat unless you are at the first or second stop of the line. So, because I have too much on my plate to really give a cow about a line, I just stand to the side with my book. I don't nudge people. I don't push people. I just find a spot in the line, and eventually find a place to sit or stand. I don't force a pregnant woman to stand while I sit. I gracefully let a good, healthy man sit in a seat, even though my feet are bursting from their firey cages.
There has been a woman on the Fremont train at Oakland that still takes offense to my standing at the side. It annoys the hell out of her that I do it. All the other regulars know that it doesn't make any difference. But it annoys her. Because apparently she is in a race to get a seat that does not exist. I even saw her fight over a seat with a poor, Asian pregnant woman. I see ulcers in her future. I don't fight with her. I let her go crazy. I let her inch herself in front of the line. I let her get so close to the yellow tiles that a BART operator yells at her to get off the "fucking tiles, m'aam!". I just laugh. One time when I got up from my seat to stand to the side, she saw me and got instantly to the side and went right in front of me. Like there were two lines. And kept inching closer and closer to the first person in the first line, stating some things that I couldn't hear. Saying something like how she felt it was awful how us line-cutters could ruin the order. The woman looked at her, then at me, and shook her head at the lady. I looked up from my book and just gave a smirk.
There is a woman that likes to drive in the middle of the BART parking lot. Of course it is always the time when I just turn around the corner trying to find a spot. The coffee hasn't hit my veins yet. I always expel a good amount of expletives. But I find my spot, think how stupid people are, and go on my merry way. What people don't know is I have acquired the skill to look at people in their cars and memorize their faces. Every day when I encounter that woman, I know she is always in line near my bench five minutes before me. She stands three people behind, her portfolio in between her legs, going through her Blackberry. Not the Blackberrys that are slick and smooth, but the really old, blue ones. The ones that my mom wanted to throw out the door because she could not figure them out. She looks like she would have been a great grandmother with her crafts and hot cocoa. But that isn't in her future. She looks like a business-professional; maybe a designer. I see lines around her eyes and mouths. Those lines were not created by smiles and laughter. She drives an Oldsmobile. That seems like the middle of the road.
BART all over Oakland has only one smell: urine. It may be disguised in Pine Sol or some other sorts of aromas that they try to spray on it, but it still smells like urine. The bench that I sit on as I wait for the Fremont train always has some hint of people product on it. I always wonder if I stay long in this area that I will acquire that scent. The thing is the smell is not just in BART: it's every where in the city. As I walk around the city going to the post office or to court, I always get a hit of that smell as the wind blows. Of course we work right across a park that is always inhabited by homeless. But still. Even at the Board, where the modern meets the old in fabulous collision, you can still smell the urine trying to invade the 21st century halls. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you can smell the ocean of Jack London Square mixed in the urine. That makes a fabulous cologne. I would make a fortune if only people liked the smell of salty urine.
If anyone ever walked the streets of Oakland in daylight, you would notice the beauty of this dirty gem. Oakland would be the beautiful topaz in the gemstone family. Dirty. Orange. But gorgeous. The old, dirty buildings with its culture and shining genius. Mixed in with garbage and derelects. Then the areas that they are trying to modernize. The 21st century clean lines and pristine shines. It shines next to the old buildings. Too bad the pigeons can't tell the difference and shit on both equally.
One time, as I huffed up the stairs from the BART station, I met a pigeon that was too scared of the Oakland streets. He sat in the corner of the stairs, feather fluffed, looking at me with eyes that said, "Don't you dare come near me. I have a talon and I know how to use it." You know you may not be in the safest places in the universe when a pigeon is scared of you.
I will miss Oakland. I will miss it with its uniqueness and culture. Somehow I felt like I belonged to this misfit city. I may be working there again, but maybe not. Who knows. But I will miss this topaz of a place. With it's hippie/granola coffeehouses and urine-smell. And the fact that I can BART there with ease just makes it much nicer. I will miss ya, you dirty Whore.
You beautiful, dirty, topazy Whore.
Every day except Monday and Friday there is a man that greets me every morning at our favorite bench. He is a grandfatherly type man, with a grandfather smell. Not the rotten smell, but the grand wise smell that I always equated with my grandfather before he died. He has a wonderful smile, but speaks broken English. We bond over the fact that we travel the same time and the same train. And the fact that I never bring a jacket. The only thing we say to each other is "Good morning!" and "Cold!" But on Thursday when I said my usual "Good morning!" he reached out his hand. Looking at it confused, I slowly reached out my own. I was then pulled into a wonderful grandfather hug and kiss on my freezing cheek. I felt a rush to the spot. I smiled profusely with a "Ooh!" He then said, "Cold!" pointing at my short sleeves. I just laughed and gave my usual, "It will get warmer, don't worry." I will miss him when I finish my last week at work.
For the longest time, there was always a woman on the other side of the Castro Valley platform. She wasn't stunning in appearence. Actually, to most society's standards she was definitely not a Betty. She wore clothes that I would have loved to wear at work, but couldn't. Big, fluffy sweaters; t-shirt like undershirts to cover the areas not covered by the sweaters; Roomy jeans that hid the hideous shoes that pretended to be high heels. She also had the unfortunate gene of having very thin, short hair that flipped at the edges and showed her scalp. But she stood courageously on that side of the track where the wind makes your hair stand on end. And as she stood waiting for the train, she would pull out her make up bag and start putting on her make-up. Now, the phrase that would always enter in my judgement mind would be, "Oh Honey, that's not going to help you at all." She would glob on foundation on her already perfect complexion, making it more like a mask than it needed to be. Then smear big amounts of green on her lids to appear like she was going to visit the Ringly Brothers. Expand her lashes. Put on the ugliest shade of lipstick I had ever seen.
I thought she was beautiful. Unfortunately she hasn't been taking my train lately. Either she comes in early, or her summer job is done.
Every Wednesday my "grandfather" and I would also be joined by a gorgeous girl sitting in the corner of the bench. She would be reading some sort of book, hunched shivering in the corner. Sometimes the book was a classic. Sometimes it was trashy romance. Either way, she always sat looking nervously up every three minutes. Like the BART train would come without her noticing and she would miss it. She would sometimes look at me while I sipped at my mug observing the cars, but most of the time she would just look up in the direction of the track. It was not until her mother would always come up and say, "You forgot your coat again!" that I realized she was looking for her. She has stopped coming since school started.
Now, if anyone knows BART during commuter hours, you know there are always lines in front of the black blocks. The black blocks are supposed to be where the doors are. That is mostly true. Either way, there is always a line waiting. Now to normal commuters, the lines are not meant to be strict, rule-abiding things. A line is a line. It doesn't matter if you're in the front or in the back, you're not going to get a seat unless you are at the first or second stop of the line. So, because I have too much on my plate to really give a cow about a line, I just stand to the side with my book. I don't nudge people. I don't push people. I just find a spot in the line, and eventually find a place to sit or stand. I don't force a pregnant woman to stand while I sit. I gracefully let a good, healthy man sit in a seat, even though my feet are bursting from their firey cages.
There has been a woman on the Fremont train at Oakland that still takes offense to my standing at the side. It annoys the hell out of her that I do it. All the other regulars know that it doesn't make any difference. But it annoys her. Because apparently she is in a race to get a seat that does not exist. I even saw her fight over a seat with a poor, Asian pregnant woman. I see ulcers in her future. I don't fight with her. I let her go crazy. I let her inch herself in front of the line. I let her get so close to the yellow tiles that a BART operator yells at her to get off the "fucking tiles, m'aam!". I just laugh. One time when I got up from my seat to stand to the side, she saw me and got instantly to the side and went right in front of me. Like there were two lines. And kept inching closer and closer to the first person in the first line, stating some things that I couldn't hear. Saying something like how she felt it was awful how us line-cutters could ruin the order. The woman looked at her, then at me, and shook her head at the lady. I looked up from my book and just gave a smirk.
There is a woman that likes to drive in the middle of the BART parking lot. Of course it is always the time when I just turn around the corner trying to find a spot. The coffee hasn't hit my veins yet. I always expel a good amount of expletives. But I find my spot, think how stupid people are, and go on my merry way. What people don't know is I have acquired the skill to look at people in their cars and memorize their faces. Every day when I encounter that woman, I know she is always in line near my bench five minutes before me. She stands three people behind, her portfolio in between her legs, going through her Blackberry. Not the Blackberrys that are slick and smooth, but the really old, blue ones. The ones that my mom wanted to throw out the door because she could not figure them out. She looks like she would have been a great grandmother with her crafts and hot cocoa. But that isn't in her future. She looks like a business-professional; maybe a designer. I see lines around her eyes and mouths. Those lines were not created by smiles and laughter. She drives an Oldsmobile. That seems like the middle of the road.
BART all over Oakland has only one smell: urine. It may be disguised in Pine Sol or some other sorts of aromas that they try to spray on it, but it still smells like urine. The bench that I sit on as I wait for the Fremont train always has some hint of people product on it. I always wonder if I stay long in this area that I will acquire that scent. The thing is the smell is not just in BART: it's every where in the city. As I walk around the city going to the post office or to court, I always get a hit of that smell as the wind blows. Of course we work right across a park that is always inhabited by homeless. But still. Even at the Board, where the modern meets the old in fabulous collision, you can still smell the urine trying to invade the 21st century halls. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you can smell the ocean of Jack London Square mixed in the urine. That makes a fabulous cologne. I would make a fortune if only people liked the smell of salty urine.
If anyone ever walked the streets of Oakland in daylight, you would notice the beauty of this dirty gem. Oakland would be the beautiful topaz in the gemstone family. Dirty. Orange. But gorgeous. The old, dirty buildings with its culture and shining genius. Mixed in with garbage and derelects. Then the areas that they are trying to modernize. The 21st century clean lines and pristine shines. It shines next to the old buildings. Too bad the pigeons can't tell the difference and shit on both equally.
One time, as I huffed up the stairs from the BART station, I met a pigeon that was too scared of the Oakland streets. He sat in the corner of the stairs, feather fluffed, looking at me with eyes that said, "Don't you dare come near me. I have a talon and I know how to use it." You know you may not be in the safest places in the universe when a pigeon is scared of you.
I will miss Oakland. I will miss it with its uniqueness and culture. Somehow I felt like I belonged to this misfit city. I may be working there again, but maybe not. Who knows. But I will miss this topaz of a place. With it's hippie/granola coffeehouses and urine-smell. And the fact that I can BART there with ease just makes it much nicer. I will miss ya, you dirty Whore.
You beautiful, dirty, topazy Whore.