I hope you're okay with a bunch of kids sitting on your lap
Yesterday was kind of a hell day for BART travelers. It was super crowded because of the storm and all the people who might usually drive were crammed together, elbow to elbow in the trains. And it smelled. And there were delays every which way, particularly beyond 24th street for reasons that I still don't understand.
So that was the way it was, and at the end of the day I got on the train to go back to Oakland and, as I said, people were crammed in elbow to elbow. But in one of the rear four-seater areas there was this man taking up every single seat with a bunch of sparkling pink backpacks and coats discarded on the floor. It looked like an abandoned slumber party. None of the participants (except the man) were anywhere to be found.
Hmm. Let me think. It's 5:30pm in downtown SF on a Friday. The train is so packed that I can't even find a pole to grab. But this guy is going to take up four seats for his tribe of daughters while they wander around the train.
So I say, "Excuse me," as in "Excuse me while I sit in one of those seats that I paid good money to sit in."
And he said, "You can't sit there. Those seats are taken."
"By who? I don't see anybody."
"By my daughters. They're right over there." They were on the train cab behind us. I could just make them out beyond a sea of legs. Three of them were distracted, talking and goofing around, but the fourth one had just become aware that I was about to jack their place.
For a moment I paused. Maybe about thirty seconds passed while I rethought my position. I didn't want to do this, but on the other hand, if I didn't do this, who the hell would? My fellow commuters did everything in their power to NOT look at the conflict going on.
I said to him, "Mmmm, no. I don't think so." And so I sat down.
We exchanged a few words, I can't remember what they were. I may have tried to correct his manners and, bizarrely enough, he tried to correct my grammar. It ended with this statement from him: "Okay, but I hope you're okay with a bunch of kids sitting in your lap."
By this time the girls had been fully alerted to the situation and were working their way, body by body, towards their father and me. These ladies were the picture book definition of the over-privileged and delusional children of the wealthy. Lip gloss wearing 7 and 8 year olds with angelic ringlets and matching accessories. They looked like Disney vomit.
But the father was true to his word. When they arrived one girl asked, "Where am I going to sit?" And he replied, "Karen, you can sit in HER lap." I smiled and countered as cheerfully as I could, "No. You can't." It did cross my mind to lecture them about the importance of being considerate to others in public space, but I'm just not as ornery as I use to be, so I let it go. No one sat in my lap. They did everything but. The youngest girl began climbing on her father like a crazed monkey with her ass in my face. And it was at this time that I realized that my feet were planted, accidentally but firmly, on one dainty, fur-rimmed winter jacket. And because the father was having such a good time playing with his daughter, possibly enjoying my discomfort or maybe only distracted, he didn't notice me grinding my rubber shoes across its fabric.
The whole trip took maybe 20 minutes. I tried to pretend amusement, but after the first five it stopped being funny and became kind of a drag to be surrounded by these kids: "Daddy, I want the computer!" "Where's the gameboy?" "I want to play Alabama Mississippi!" I thought I was really sticking it to the man, but the man was sticking it to me right back.
As I've said to Cliff recently, I'm not sure I can keep up the pace. I cannot confront every douchebag I see on the BART. There are just too many. And at some point, like yesterday, it's not even fun anymore. Am I getting old? Have I lost my stuff?
So that was the way it was, and at the end of the day I got on the train to go back to Oakland and, as I said, people were crammed in elbow to elbow. But in one of the rear four-seater areas there was this man taking up every single seat with a bunch of sparkling pink backpacks and coats discarded on the floor. It looked like an abandoned slumber party. None of the participants (except the man) were anywhere to be found.
Hmm. Let me think. It's 5:30pm in downtown SF on a Friday. The train is so packed that I can't even find a pole to grab. But this guy is going to take up four seats for his tribe of daughters while they wander around the train.
So I say, "Excuse me," as in "Excuse me while I sit in one of those seats that I paid good money to sit in."
And he said, "You can't sit there. Those seats are taken."
"By who? I don't see anybody."
"By my daughters. They're right over there." They were on the train cab behind us. I could just make them out beyond a sea of legs. Three of them were distracted, talking and goofing around, but the fourth one had just become aware that I was about to jack their place.
For a moment I paused. Maybe about thirty seconds passed while I rethought my position. I didn't want to do this, but on the other hand, if I didn't do this, who the hell would? My fellow commuters did everything in their power to NOT look at the conflict going on.
I said to him, "Mmmm, no. I don't think so." And so I sat down.
We exchanged a few words, I can't remember what they were. I may have tried to correct his manners and, bizarrely enough, he tried to correct my grammar. It ended with this statement from him: "Okay, but I hope you're okay with a bunch of kids sitting in your lap."
By this time the girls had been fully alerted to the situation and were working their way, body by body, towards their father and me. These ladies were the picture book definition of the over-privileged and delusional children of the wealthy. Lip gloss wearing 7 and 8 year olds with angelic ringlets and matching accessories. They looked like Disney vomit.
But the father was true to his word. When they arrived one girl asked, "Where am I going to sit?" And he replied, "Karen, you can sit in HER lap." I smiled and countered as cheerfully as I could, "No. You can't." It did cross my mind to lecture them about the importance of being considerate to others in public space, but I'm just not as ornery as I use to be, so I let it go. No one sat in my lap. They did everything but. The youngest girl began climbing on her father like a crazed monkey with her ass in my face. And it was at this time that I realized that my feet were planted, accidentally but firmly, on one dainty, fur-rimmed winter jacket. And because the father was having such a good time playing with his daughter, possibly enjoying my discomfort or maybe only distracted, he didn't notice me grinding my rubber shoes across its fabric.
The whole trip took maybe 20 minutes. I tried to pretend amusement, but after the first five it stopped being funny and became kind of a drag to be surrounded by these kids: "Daddy, I want the computer!" "Where's the gameboy?" "I want to play Alabama Mississippi!" I thought I was really sticking it to the man, but the man was sticking it to me right back.
As I've said to Cliff recently, I'm not sure I can keep up the pace. I cannot confront every douchebag I see on the BART. There are just too many. And at some point, like yesterday, it's not even fun anymore. Am I getting old? Have I lost my stuff?