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By Keane Ng
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Oct. 16, 2003 |
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I'd never been more insulted in my life than when I was kicked off a MUNI bus.
I had just been peacefully eating a sandwich, savoring its taste when the driver asked me to throw it away. My choice was to either get off the bus or throw away my sandwich. Not a big decision. When a sandwich duels with a bus ride, the sandwich will emerge the victor. Always. So, I got off the bus, still eating the sandwich and really not that angry. No big deal, right?
But as I watched that bus drive up Fillmore, uncontrollable anger and frustration began to swell in me. All my past MUNI troubles came back getting sass-mouthed for using a March 1999 Fast Pass in August 2002, throwing my 7UP away at the edict of Mr. Driver Man and suddenly I hated the guy, hated him with fire and passion. And so I looked up at the sky, roared at the gray clouds and stamped my feet in rage. I can see now that I wasn't exactly standing on the summit of sanity, but I was just steamin' mad.
I've used The Lowell as a platform for complaint before, so it came to me naturally to abuse my journalistic power to take my revenge.
I decided to watch one driver and record my observations. But my experience was quite different from what I had expected. The MUNI driver revealed himself to be a very different entity from my expectations.
I decided to observe a driver on the 48 Quintara. So on a sunny Monday I cut my 19/20 class and caught the 48 near St. Ignatius. I wasn't anticipating meeting the most wonderful person in the whole wide world when I began this operation, and upon climbing into the vehicle, my expectations seemed correct.
Keane: Hi! Thank you.
Bus Driver: Grunt. Sneer. Snarl. Grunt.
Now don't get me wrong. I've known a couple nice MUNI drivers in my life, Irish ones. This guy was neither nice nor Irish. For him, the act of MUNI-ing was basically a repetitive dance of sneer-snarl-sneer-snarl-grunt. Now that's a first impression that will destroy the MUNI-riding experience.
In addition, the bus had a noticeably terrible smell. An entire day of driving around with people of various odors gave the bus a stench beyond redemption.
So. The bus schlumped off with a chug and a spurt of exhaust, and I was off on my MUNI bus journey. Taking a seat next to Mr. MUNI Driver, I put a notebook on my lap and began to document. For the sake of convenience and fun, I decided to name my MUNI driver, Johnson. Why? He looked like the kind of guy you would name Johnson.
About 15 minutes into the ride, the bus reached Italy Street, and Johnson began to reveal his traits to me. When people got onto the bus, Johnson turned his head slightly towards the door. Why? I assumed so that he could see who was getting onto the bus, maybe to check when he should open and close the door. Johnson, probably a veteran driver, slowed down his bus very gradually, going almost unnoticeably slowly before he stopped. Maybe this guy wasn't so very hard-assed. He must care about his passengers if he doesn't want them to have an unbearably shaky ride.
If I hadn't been watching Johnson, I would have never even noticed that he was there. He was so unbelievably quiet, just pushing and releasing the gas, opening the doors, etc. After a while, such a person becomes invisible, sinks into his place as a MUNI-man. Sure, he wasn't exactly Chippendale material, and he seemed a little hard to approach. But going down Elizabeth Street on a very empty bus, Johnson was driving his bus taking nobody but me anywhere.
This bus passed two schools: Lincoln and School of the Arts. No kids got on at Lincoln, but a sad-looking girl and a giggly-looking couple joined us at School of the Arts. Johnson gave the gigglies a pair of transfers, and they sat in the back. He showed no signs of irritation at the sight of these new arrivals, as I had expected. Some MUNI drivers start swearing their shirts off profusely at the sight of any being younger than 25, but Johnson kept his relative cool.
I went back to my post, and watched Johnson drive for another 20 minutes. He pushed the pedals, opened the door when there were people (often there were none), and stopped the bus at all the red lights the most exciting activity in the world. I was getting bored just watching. So the bus drove on for some time, until Mission Street.
At Mission, things began to get a little bit more interesting. There, many people got onto the bus æ so many, my warm cozy seat became a privilege. There were hungry eyes on my seat in that bus, my friends, and I found myself fending off horde upon horde of vile seat-usurpers. Twisting my head around some 20 dudes, I was able to watch Johnson and notice his new patterns of behavior.
With so many people, Johnson had to step up his game. He unloaded a fresh batch of transfers into his hand and began to pass them out with professional precision. If the rider had a Fast Pass, no transfer was needed. If he was paying with bills, Johnson unleashed his transfers.
Two stops after Mission, the bus became rather rowdy. Since the vehicle was so crowded, I couldn't see what was going on in the back, but it was loud and disruptive. At the next stop, Johnson yelled to the back of the bus that those guys needed to shut up. Of course, Johnson had not spoken a single word up to this point, not even "thank you" or "you're welcome," so this sudden outburst was quite frightening. His voice sounded like the devil trying to get out of a drunk's throat the kind of noise to make a guy run away, piss his pants, fall over, piss his pants and then take of his piss-stained pants and lie in a piss-pool crying anguished tears. At least that's the way I heard it.
After the next stop, those boys in the back had not quit their rowdy game, so Johnson got a little peeved. He stood up, and the crowds parted to clear him a path to the rear of the vehicle. A heavy silence fell on the passengers. We heard some angered mumblings. Then Johnson returned to his driver's seat, started up the bus and continued to drive.
There was a strange silence as the bus started up; the only sounds were those of bus parts starting up. Obviously, Johnson had asserted his power and shut the rowdy crowd up. Johnson was hardcore. Eventually bus-riders resumed speaking, and things became normal again.
South Van Ness Street brought a change. When Johnson opened the door, he saw that nobody was there. He looked out at the stop and closed the door. Before he drove off, Johnson looked outside again and saw a van for the Mi Rancho Bakery van. Though I could not clearly see the expression in Johnson's eyes, I assumed they expressed hunger.
I sat back, stretched my arms and took a good long look at Johnson. He no longer looked like a MUNI driver to me; he looked more like a dog. A hungry, hungry dog, looking with hungry-dog eyes at a Mi Rancho Bakery van. Everyone gets hungry. Even MUNI drivers. The only problem is that they can't get off their buses and go to their Mi Rancho Bakeries or whatever. I can cut class and go to Ambrosia Bakery whenever I want. Feel pity for Johnson he has no such advantage.
The bus cleared out when it got to Potrero Hill, and was practically empty as it reached the end of the line. This would be my last chance to speak with my subject, but frankly, I still found him hard to approach. When I gathered up the courage, I stood behind his seat and hung on the holding pole. I asked him where the last stop was. He responded: "Comin' up right now. Right around the block."
We came to the last stop. I spoke to him again: "So, um, where do you go after this last stop? To the MUNI depot or something?"
"Go right back the way I came, back up."
I got off the bus and walked around the corner. Some people would say it is really strange to think about MUNI drivers, but lately I haven't been able to stop myself from thinking about Johnson. Mixed in my consciousness with sexual fantasies and action-movie scenes, there was Johnson the MUNI driver I had barely spoken barely to. He may have been a little bit grouchy and hard shelled, but taking another bus home that night I could only feel sorry for him.
Johnson, my friend, you live no easy life. MUNI driving is a monotonous, dehumanizing occupation. I always thought it would be an adventure, a delightful activity, like hula-hooping or making pastries, to steer that oversized wheel and open those oversized doors. There must be a sensation of sovereignty to perch upon that driver's seat and look out those huge MUNI windshields. But that feeling goes away. |
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