Chloe

On the 22 Fillmore
Headed toward Potrero Hill
Wednesday afternoon

***

“Hey, what’s up girl?”  A man behind me whispers as I step onto the 22-shuttle bus on 20^th St. & Tennessee.  The bus is a shuttle because there is no power until Mission St.  “How are you?” the man asks.  He is an old black man with a leathery worn face and gray stubble.  I tell him I am fine and he begins to sing, “I’m in love, I’m all shook up.” He must be an Elvis fan, mentally ill or on a lot of drugs.   He begins to mumble something very long to me, it sounds like some sort of biblical scripture but I can’t make out the exact words. “What do you think of that?” he asks after his spiel.  “Talk to me…I’ll talk back.”  He begins to sing,  “When a Man Loves a Woman.”  He seems friendly, but crazy so I respond to him as little as possible.  I feel discomfort as he leans over my shoulder to whisper and sing.  He doesn’t smell bad, but he looks bad with old black jeans and a crusty, dirty red t-shirt and a worn in, shrunken leather jacket. When he gets off I feel liberated and relieved for he is no longer crowding my space by leaning closely over my shoulder.  I would have moved away from him, the bus was not very full, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

I’m not even on a real bus right now, but a shuttle.  Unlike a real MUNI, the shuttle seems a bit wider, there are a few stairs in the middle and the windows are so high up I can’t quite see the outside world.  There is no power between the start of the 22 and Mission St. So I will be on this god-awful, hot, sweaty shuttle until we reach Mission in roughly 15 minutes.  It’s early fall and the weather is painfully warm, but no one on this bus appears to be suffering as badly as I am.  My mouth is dry and I feel as though I could faint. Before we leave, the bus driver, a chubby black man in his 40s, invites everyone to step off the shuttle bus before we depart in about 5 minutes.  It is at least 20 degrees warmer on the bus, but despite the uncomfortable conditions, no one takes his offer.   I will sacrifice my health and stay put.  Besides the old, emaciated, gray haired black man who keeps singing to me there is a black woman up front wearing a bright red top and pants, and a matching red headband.  She looks to be around her early 60s and she asks the bus driver “Do you go to 16^th and Stanyan?” I hear no reply from the bus driver.

Also on this shuttle is a little chubby Hispanic girl and her two female guardians who are chatting in Spanish.  We all sit together on this shuttle and before we depart we are joined by one more passenger.  He is a young black man wearing a white trucker cap backwards, and baggy pants and shirt.

The shuttle finally starts to move and at our first stop a young white man with a white oxford shirt gets on the bus, he sets up his iPod and sits quietly.  The only ones talking are the Spanish speaking women and the black man singing behind me.  The bus driver continues to pick up passengers warning them that as soon as we get to Mission this shuttle will kick us out and we are left to find our own transportation.  “This is only a shuttle!” he tells each passenger as they board the shuttle bus, “22 shuttle…we only go to Mission. You’ll have to find alternate transportation after that.”

As I look around at everyone they all seem content sitting in this death chamber, I appear to be the only one dying from the heat.  Outside I see some quaint restaurants I would love to explore.  One has a picture of a goat on it that looks like a pizza restaurant, and I see a few Indian places.  We drive past a shopping complex with a Safeway that is nicely constructed with Mexican style adobe architecture.

A white girl with dirty blonde hair just got on the bus and to my delight I see she is reading White Teeth by Zadie Smith, which is one of my favorite books.  I wish I was near enough to her to tell her.  An old white woman who has just gotten on the bus is on her cell phone explaining the shuttle bus situation.  The bus has become very crowded raising the temperature by at least 10 degrees.  Two Asian men in their 20s just got on and they seem exhausted and sweaty.  One of them sits down next to me.  I sit uncomfortably, rolling up my sleeves, wiping the sweat off my armpits and dramatically sighing and muttering “Jesus!” The Asian man stares at me like I am crazy.  Well this is what heat does to me! I want to scream!

Finally we approach Mission and I make my escape.  We are at a Walgreens and I walk a block up to the bus stop, which is located around a cluster of little markets selling fruit.   I approach the bus stop for the 22 and wait patiently with three other people.  One is a young Hispanic woman with a crying baby and the other is an older white woman in her 60s whose body is reminiscent of a tub of lard.  The young Hispanic is speaking to her child in Spanish and she is wearing a black windbreaker.  Is she crazy?  It is well above 80 degrees!

Trying to be polite, the older woman says, “She’s a beautiful girl, what’s her name?”

“Alexa,” the young woman answers.  I take a look at the baby, and she isn’t that beautiful.  She has pierced ears and wide cheeks.  The baby stares at me and begins to smile.  That is very sweet of Alexa and we continue to stare and smile at one another until the bus arrives.

When the real bus arrives, 10 people I hadn’t noticed rush to the bus.  Where were they all hiding, I wonder?  They seem to have just appeared from nowhere.  We all pack on to the hot bus, and sadly there are no seats.  Standing near me is a white man with tattoos all over his arms wearing Gucci glasses and a black t-shirt that says “Trader Joe’s”.  He has very short hair that is graying slightly, although he looks to be only in his mid-thirties.

Up in the front of the bus I spot a boy with down syndrome who yells out “BAM!” and rocks back and forth while smiling into the air and picking at his eyes.

We pass by the Mission district and I see many “hole in the wall” restaurants, thrift stores, and small markets until the streets become more residential. There are a lot of babies on the bus today.  I see three Hispanic couples with babies, all of them are speaking Spanish to their youngens.  “Como…Fillmore and Meekalister?” one of the middle aged Hispanics says to his wife as she cradles her child in her arms. One of the babies begins to cry.  I look over and see that it is Alexa who is crying.

“Back door!” a girl shouts out.  “Push the door!” everyone instructs her.  She does not push the door, and seems confused by the instructions being shouted at her.

“Could someone push the bar for her!” a guy yells out.  I step down and press the bar for her, and feel that I have done my good service for the day.  We are now driving on Fillmore St., in a neighborhood near Haight St.  There are some Victorian houses and markets on every corner.

A clan of three Asian girls step on the bus.  They are around 17 years old and stand next to the exit door.  As people leave they shout, “Have a nice day!”  One of them claims she works for the MUNI and that she gets paid $100 every time she says “Have a nice day” One of the Asian girls finds a seat next to the gray haired man in Gucci glasses and Trader Joe’s t-shirt.  He stares at her, looking slightly annoyed.  One of the Asian girls who is still standing yells to her friend, “Get up, are you Chinese or not?”

“No, I’m half Chinese and half Korean!” she replies.  I don’t know what they are talking about, or what being Chinese has to do with standing up.

Four college students just boarded.  Two men, two women, all of them white.  They wear shirts from Boston College and one of the women looks out the window and asks, “Oh, is that a church?” One of the guys replies, “Maybe…or maybe its just a place where Christians gather to worship.”

We continue on Fillmore past apartment buildings, fast food eateries and a place that offers wigs made of 100% human hair!  A little black girl with cornrows is sitting in the back of the bus and points out to the young black boy next to her how the McDonald’s outside has a broken window.  It looks like a bullet hole and there is yellow tape crisscrossed over it.

At the next stop an angry old black man in his 70s gets on the bus shouting “Hey, all of you are sitting here are like zombies!”  He seems tired and bitter.  He walks with his back bent over and he looks slightly crippled.

A white man in his 50s takes this insult personally and shouts back, “Don’t call us zombies!”

“Jackass,” the old black guy yells back at him.

“Don’t be a rude old hag, don’t call us zombies!”  the white guy yells back.

The old black guy continues to call him a zombie and a jackass, and gets off at the next stop where there is a Popeye’s and a very tall apartment complex called “The Fillmore Center”.

“All of that for one block!”  The white guy yells to no one in particular.  He then sits down and calls someone on his cell phone to tell what just occurred.  This man is unattractive, with a sweaty face and stringy blonde hair with a bald spot in the center.

We approach Japantown and a large, dark skinned woman gets on the bus with her boyfriend who is white and much shorter and smaller than she is.  The woman who commented on the beauty of baby Alexa asks the dark skinned woman, “You must be Samoan, are you Samoan?”  Turns out she is not Samoan.

Three white teenagers just got on the bus, two girls and one boy.  One of the girls is wearing a dress from American Apparel, a Blondie canvas from Marc Jacobs and brown Minnetonka moccasins.  Her friend is wearing shorts and a t-shirt and her other friend is a guy with a Jew-fro and big teeth.

“You want to go to American Apparel and LF?” the American Apparel wearing girls asks her friends. I gather that they are on their way to Union St., and sure enough the girls says, “You want to go to Union St.?”  She really wants to go shopping, and I can tell that she is on a mission.  We pass by a pretty chi-chi shopping area on Fillmore St.  There is a Marc Jacobs, a Betsey Johnson and other small, upscale boutiques.  There are also a lot of French cafés, a gelato place and a sushi restaurant.   The area becomes residential with nice apartment buildings complete with perfectly manicured gardens and vibrant colored flowers.  After all of these nice houses we come to Union St., where there are more clothing stores and restaurants with outdoor seating.

The three white teenagers exit the bus and so do two old white men in there 80s who are going to catch the 45.  Union is a popular stop and over half the bus unloads.  I am left sitting on a bus with three Hispanic guys in the back and one old white guy with a beer belly sitting up front.  One of the Hispanics wears a white baseball cap and has a gold tooth.  He speaks Spanish with his friend.  We pass by some nail salons, a really lovely looking grocery store with outdoor seating and then we approach the Marina were we are informed that this is the last stop.  I get off the bus relieved that my hot, miserable journey is finally over.

***

You can see a slideshow of Chloe’s photo shoot here.

Chloe’s blog Chlo-ish is http://cloish.tumblr.com/