My journey home today felt like the ultimate San Francisco melting pot, in more glorious, uncomfortable ways than one. I had gotten on at the first stop of the 22 bus’ route- which leaves from the Dogpatch and makes its way, slowly but surely, to the Marina. I was taking that particular route home because I’d stopped by the Move Loot warehouse to pick up this baby.
So I start out on a relatively empty bus, holding two pieces to a bizarre looking coat rack (which I conveniently enough hung my tote bag off of- genius I know). As the bus moved through Potrero Hill the 4:30 school crowd got on, bringing with them the chaos and havoc of being 15. Their sweatshirts were emblazoned with the numbers 2018 in large block font. Jesus. 2018? That shit cray.
At some point an older gentleman got on the bus and began rambling what sounded like a mix between unstable rants and poetry. His cries ranged from “I’m. Not. Gay. Not gay, okay? You say? Okay.” to “PBS, PBS, Channel 9… these kids don’t even know what I’m talking about do they? Streets! Sesame Streets! Oscar, that grouch… do you kids even know? Even know?” He hooted and hollered at those around him, adding something almost delightful to the atmosphere. I should mention this was a 70 degree March 5th San Francisco day, so that atmosphere filled with people and noise and chaos, also had a true element of heat- that heat that turned the bus into the melting pot I’d mentioned above.
At 16th and Mission the first mass exodus left the bus, and the girl sitting next to me took out a large, bound, paper workbook. It was an instruction manual on becoming a yoga instructor. Ah yes, a fellow gentrifier. I almost told her I liked her yoga pants, but I was too hot, too distracted by the absurd item I was balancing- to interact with any part of the situation around me.
At Haight and Fillmore the second exodus left the bus, and I prepared to exit , taking care not to deck anyone with what could only be described as a blunt object. My disembarkment was surprising easy, and I reveled in being off the overly warm bus. I had survived another MUNI journey and lived to write about it.
And now we have a coat rack.