These two entries are things I wrote about a year ago but ring absolutely true when it comes to misadventures on the BART system. Some of you might remember them:

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Walking to the BART station one morning I crossed the path of a little kid--probably 9 or 10 years old--on his way to school. He was wearing one of those big puffy NorthFace jackets and a pair of old-school Jordans. I tried to get his attention so I could find out where he got his shoes, but he didn't hear me. I thought he was ignoring me until I got closer and realized he was listening to an iPod through high-end Sony studio headphones and eating an Extreme Sausage Sandwich from the Jack in the Box across the street. I have never been more envious of a 9 year old black child in my entire life. Now I understand why people get mugged for their clothing.

When it rains BART stinks, literally. One rainy day last October was no exception. As I boarded the front car at Embarcadero I was struck, once again, by the oh-so-familiar "wet-BART" smell that will, to varying degrees, saturate the entire train by the time it reaches its destination. The odor, I have found, is a combination of wet clothes, uncomfortable human body heat, and the ethnically-flavored, gastrointestinal discharge of the passengers on board. It can be overwhelming to those who lack the capacity to breathe through their mouths.

Eventually we pull into 12th St. where we are met by the typical rush-hour crush of riders transferring from the Pittsburg-Bay Point train who were too goddamn impatient to wait the extra 7 minutes for the Richmond train they ACTUALLY wanted to board in the first place. It is a particularly heavy commute day, so every available seat and much of the standing room is taken as we depart the station with a jerk.

Being so crowded, I decide to look up from my newspaper to see what the cat dragged in. Sitting across from me is a woman--I think--who, upon examination, can only be described as functionally retarded. Under her over-stuffed backpack and clear, rain-soaked poncho, she is wearing a lime-green Teletubbies sweatshirt. It does not fit well. To accompany this trend-setting fashion statement, she is wearing a pair of pocketless maroon sweatpants that she has tucked neatly into a pair of fully-extended gray sweatsocks. The socks, in turn, are wedged into a beat-up pair of knock-off Teva sandals. I'm telling you, this woman is a sexy beast.

The best part of this woman's ensemble is what she decided to wear on her head. Oh no, not a hat. Not a scarf. She's decided to use the Style Section of the Tribune as her protective cover. In case you need some help with this image, let me tell you, the irony is delicious. Even better though, is the fact that she refuses to take it off her head while she is on the train. At one point it starts sliding off and she actually repositions it atop her head.

If this isn't enough, it seems our "special" friend has the sniffles. She has to blow her nose constantly--at least once every minute. I don't take much notice at first, but after Snot-Rocket 14, I make the mistake of looking up from my paper and trying to figure out what her problem is. As I crane my head upward she brings her hand up to her nose for Snot-Rocket 15. I cannot believe what I am witnessing. She is blowing her nose into her bare-hand! This isn't just some dainty, excuse-me, pseudo-sneeze either. This is a monster, SARS-laden, mucus missile. I almost threw up on myself.

At this point, if you are a normal human being, you should be saying to yourself, 'Wow, this couldn't get much worse.' Unfortunately, you would be wrong. So very, very wrong. Upon blowing bio-hazard all over her palm and fingers, our "special" friend decides to examine the evidence and, once she is satisfied with the results, wipe it down the front of her poncho--her CLEAR poncho. I am absolutely speechless--revolted beyond description

It takes everything I have not to stare directly at her with the disdainful look of a PETA protestor at a fox hunt. To avoid making eye contact with her, I begin looking around the car. To my surprise, everyone in the vicinity is watching her. And, like me, they all have looks of horror and disgust painted on their faces. I couldn't tell you what any of them are thinking, but I assure you the thoughts are NOT pleasant.

I spend the rest of the ride fighting my gag reflex and wearily awaiting the next snot salvo. Fortunately for everyone, when we arrive at Ashby station in Berkeley she gets up, collects herself, and bids a hasty retreat from the car. The doors close and instantaneously the front half of the car explodes in a chorus of "Omigod's" and "What the hell's?"

There is a phenomenon in human psychology through which survivors of the same major traumatic event develop intense, life-long bonds similar to those felt by members of a normal nuclear family. Friendships, adoptions, even marriages have been born from these associations. I dare say, we are no different. When we see each other on the train, we share a knowing glance and a disturbing chuckle. Our "special" friend has scarred us for life--and no one can take that away from us.

Posted by nils at 9:03 PM

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