Little Old Lady from San Francisco

“Are you 65?!”

The younger woman seemed startled by the sharp tone of the question, but managed to respond politely, “Would you like this seat?”

“Are you 65?” the elderly woman repeated, presumably expecting a literal answer, rather than the rhetorical response from the younger passenger.

There’s a small sign on the BART train that reminds passengers to yield particular seats to seniors and the disabled. The train was not yet crowded, and there were several other seats around, but the younger woman got up and offered the seat to the elderly woman, who wrestled her large garment bag and purse into their positions at her feet and on her lap. “Don’t hate the game, hate the player,” she said to the young woman, pulling out a fan to cool herself. (It was one of those heavy paper fans, stapled to wooden tongue depressor,featuring the logo of a local hospital.)

“Doors are closing. Please stand clear of the closing doors.”

The train jerked a little as it pulled out of the station. “Next stop Montgomery Street.”

At Montgomery a couple dozen new passengers piled onto the train and we standing passengers pressed closer to one another. A woman standing near the elderly passenger was trying to keep from being knocked over by the crowd but her purse violated the airspace above the little old lady.

“Get that purse out of my face!”

The woman was clearly horrified and was trying with all her might to counter the forces that were pushing her closer to the elderly woman.

“White trash — get that fucking purse out of my face!”

Conversations stopped. Passengers looked at one another, many trying to avoid making eye contact with the little old lady. A young African American woman shot the elderly woman an admonishing glance. Receiving it, the woman repeated, “Don’t hate the game, hate the player.”

I wondered if she was intentionally reversing the roles in this expression. Her contempt for those around her indiscriminate, and she did indeed seem to hate all the players on the train that day.

We pulled into Oakland West and she got up and used her garment bag as a battering ram to make her way off the train, cursing at everyone that stood between her and the door on the opposite side of the car. As the doors were closing I could still see and hear her on the platform, giving a piece of her mind to a young woman who dared to slow down as she exited the train.

The young woman who had offered her spot to the elderly woman quietly repossessed her seat. I thought of my late maternal grandmother, a woman who never, to my knowledge, offered a cross word in public.

“Next stop, 12th Street, Oakland City Center.”