Bart Diaries
Blurbs I’ve compiled over the years.
Woman loudly and enthusiastically providing birthday gift advice by phone. “It rhymes with six! Give her that on her birthday. Six! What rhymes with six? Why aren’t you getting this … take out the “i” and put in an “e” — that’s right, that’s what you should give her for her birthday. Rhymes with six.” — February 2016
Oakland-bound train, rather crowded on this holiday. Woman answers her phone loudly. “Hello? Yeah … I’m on Bart. What? I’M ON BART. You know I don’t like talking on the phone when I’m on Bart. What’s that? I said I’M ON BART. YOU KNOW I DONT LIKE TALKING WHEN I’M ON THE TRAIN. Huh? On BART. I CAN’T TALK BECAUSE I’M ON BART …” And on it goes. I departed at 19th Street and she was still going. — January 2016
Cute young guy offers his seat to an overweight woman who looks like she’s having a hard time standing. She replies “No thank you, but I appreciate the judgment” in a saccharine voice. Ouch. He smiles awkwardly. Now we’re all stuck together as the train rolls on. — December 2015
Packed SF-bound train at 8:30am. You boarded at Rockridge wearing a black backpack that projected three feet behind you. You unknowingly shoved it into my back repeatedly while we lurched through the tunnels in downtown Oakland. At one point the zipper made contact with my grey cashmere sweater and got tangled a bit. You exited at Embarcadero, taking some cashmere threads with you. Call me — my sweater would like to get to know your backpack better. — November 2015
“Open the f*cking door!” she’s shrieking while pounding the door at West Oakland station. The wrong door — the one on the other side is wide open. “Are you kidding me?” she continues to shout. — November, 2015
Taking up two of the senior/disabled seats, we have Jon Bon Jovi gone wrong (or wronger). The older guy next to me clearly needs a seat — he’s resorted to sitting on the floor rather than asking JBJ-GW to move his bundle of clothes (including two stray socks) tied together with string. See, JBJ-GW is muttering to himself in an indecipherable way. I hear a few curses. No one is willing to tangle with him to wrest the seat away. I think he’s giving Bart a bad name. — July 2015
I sat next to the largest man I’ve ever seen on the way home tonight. I transferred at MacArthur onto a packed train, but noticed one seat available. One itty bitty partial seat next to an absolutely immense person. No one dared to try it, but my feet were killing me after hiking all over SF. So I wedged myself in, and my skinny butt just barely fit. I cricked my neck having to lean to the side. But I had a coveted seat! Ha ha!
All was well until we hit Lafayette station and … I couldn’t get out. Just couldn’t do it. People had put their loaded shopping bags in front of me, and I was wedged in so tight next to Mr Big that we’ll need the jaws of life to get me out. As I write this I’ve made it through Concord and up through Pittsburgh and back down again. Someone send help. — August 2014
Bart Diaries: tensions are high on this packed train. The gladiator style bunny accidentally poked someone with her foam glitter sword. The pokee was not at all amused. The heavyset sad looking batman character just stares out the window mournfully as we rumble through the tunnel. — Halloween 2014
I got the dreaded front seats — you know, the ones reserved for seniors and disabled. I hate these seats. Not as much as standing, but I hate them — because I feel I have to be on continual alert for seniors, disabled and pregnant women. My eyes discreetly scan the car for signs. Horrors! I spot a possible senior with her back to me. Do I offer her a seat? She might be offended. On second look she doesn’t seem too old. Grayish hair and a crochet hat. It’s possible she’s simply a hipster. There is such a fine line. Oh I hate these seats. — February 2013
Riding home last night, and the guy in the seat next to me starts methodically cracking his knuckles. Each one. When he gets to digit #8 or so, I give him the “ugh, please stop or I’ll scream” look. He apologizes. Then reaches in his pocket and hands me a little plastic package with earplugs in it. I say: for the knuckle cracking? he says no, it’s to protect my ears from the sound in bart tunnels which will damage my hearing long-term. Also says he’s seen me on the train before. It’s nice to know someone is stalking me and concerned about my hearing, even if he is maybe an ear pervert. I take the earplugs. They might work against knuckle crackers. — December 2012
Took an early train home last night. Big mistake. I rode in some tall guy’s armpit all the way to West Oakland. During a particularly strong lurch, I may have grabbed his armpit hair instead of the strap by accident. Note to self: take later train. — August 2011
