Wednesday, 7:05 p.m., Haight Fillmore - 16th Guerrero

It would be nothing short of alarming if you put kittens in a box and they each went to a corner, stared at the wall, not engaging with one another. No butt smelling, no meowing, not even any eye contact. But this is the 22Fillmore and the name of the game is avoidance through subtle mechanisms of defense. Humans, with all the cerebral fortitude in the world, which we use to ignore one another.

Mechanisms

1. The hoodie. A hood up on the bus is like having your own room. It is a car to a teenager who owns nothing in the world. It is "my dance space." It is impenetrable. No one can come into your hoodie.

2. The sunglasses. Last night at 7:10 p.m. a pregnant woman boarded the bus at Church and Market wearing sunglasses. She kept her sunglasses on, although technically night and also indoors. In 1956, this meant that you had a shiner. In 2009, on the 22, it means, "Who me? Oh, I'm not actually here. I'm invisible."

3. The iPod. Practically a necessity for sanity some days on the 22. The drunk across from me is yelling, maybe yelling at me, but I wouldn't know. From my standpoint, it just looks like he is singing along to The Dirtbomb's Here Comes That Sound Again. No sir, he won't get a reaction out of me. I can't heeeeaaaar you. I look around and almost everyone is a part of the white ear bud army. Eyes glazed over singing or crying or screaming inside. We are all at our own concerts. Perhaps, we all love music. But, perhaps, we all hate each other.