Friday, 9 p.m., Union Fillmore - Haight Fillmore

Dangling from rails like it is a jungle gym, his jeans, price tag still on, $189.00, fall closer to his knees with every bump of the bus revealing worn blue boxers at my eye level.
He says, "Where your brother been? I ain't seen 'em."
She, acrylics that match her shoes that match her sunglasses at night, says, "In jail." "No shit. Fo' what?" "Attempted murder." "Again." "Yeah....I left my Jordan's in my locker at school. I hope they still there tomorrow." A girl to her left whose shoes match her belt which match her bangles, pipes up, "You a fuckin' idiot. You ain't even dumb. You's a fuckin' idiot. No one leaves Jordan's in their locka if they wanna see them again."

-photo compliments of eviloars

To Feel and Deal

I have plenty of stories regarding the 22 bus. Anyone who rides it often enough must too.

I was terminated from my job this day and I simply got away from the bad news by photographing my journey home.

-dollop

22 Fillmore Story

- eviloars

Friday, 8:05 p.m., Union Fillmore - Haight Fillmore

THE CALL TO ACTION

She's haunched over permanently, the way she perhaps was 12 years ago when she was reaching down for something.

The bus hydraulics hissssss as the driver lowers it for her.

She is coming out the front door, backwards, and every step she holds to the rail clenching her shaking hands, small like baby bird's claws.

She's well-dressed with hair set and a smart hat.

We all wait patiently to board, each thinking different things about our common fear of old age.

A man helps her step from the street to the curb.

"Thank you," she says warm and gracious. "Do you want this?" she asks, holding out her transfer. "Two dollars now. Two dollars now," she repeats.

"Anyone? Anyone want this?" she says waving the transfer, low and quiet, back a forth.

She stands before me, two feet smaller. "I do" I say.

"Well here, take it. Won't do me any good. I'm goin' home."

"Thanks, darlin'," I say.

CAN WE ALL DO THIS?

A CALL TO ACTION!

PASS ALONG THE TRANSFER!

What we have really boughten is time, and I don't know about you, but I'll take all the free time I can get.

-photo compliments of JuicyRai

Wednesday, 12:01 p.m. Haight Fillmore - Fillmore California

I look again to see if she is muttering to herself or if she was talking on a headset. No headset, she's not in a meeting.

We make eye contact. This means different things in different cultures. It can mean, "Do me," it can mean, "I'm paying attention," but it's the 22, and apparently it means, "Come here, perfect stranger, let's give sanity a run for its money."

Where in God's name are you supposed to look on the bus? If I look out the window the narcissist in me kicks in and all I can see is myself in this zombie lighting. If I look anywhere else, it's either a crotch parade...or this happens.

She gets up from her seat, she's large - larger than a seat allots, and I thought she was getting off, but she scurries over to me, throwing hips so anyone lining the aisle falls into someone else's lap.

She sits down in the now vacant seat next to me. This woman I have never seen before my misinterpreted eye contact only moments ago says, "I didn't see you here, I'm sorry."

"It's cool," I respond.

"I'm so sorry. I would have sat here if I would have known you were here."

And I say, "Well, you're here now."

She mumbles. I considered mumbling too.

She rises two stops later to exit. Holding the rails on both sides she says to me, "You be careful. You never know, there could be some crazies at the next stop. You know what I mean?"

Kindly and plainly I say, "No, I don't."

"You don't?" she asks, swollen hand with four gold rings and hot, pink nailpolish held to her chest.

"No," I say with direct eye contact, "but we're just going to have to live with that."

-photo compliments of Thomas Hawk

Saturday, 7:10 p.m., Union Fillmore - Fillmore Hayes

If you're a seasoned rider you should know if the person you are seated next to on the Deuce Deuce is tolerable, if they don't have a seeping head wound or aren't masturbating under their over-sized hoodie, then don't move.
I'd seen her on the 22 at the same time before, so she should have known.
She's quiet in manner, folded in, wearing her mousy brown hair held to the side with a girl's barrette placed high on her head close to her part. She is sitting next to another girl, the kind of white, blonde girl that I wager hears, "You look like someone I know."
At the stop the four-seaters open up and the meek little lady moves to the window.
This is always slightly offensive. 'Do I smell?' 'Am I talking to myself?' we think.
And I see the blonde say to herself, "Mmmpht."
At the next stop four about 14-year-old hood rats brimming with brand names and testosterone get on and encircle the invisible woman, sitting on all sides of her.
Their conversation, uncomfortable to write let alone hear, goes, "You look like a house nigga."
"A What?!"
"Like a nigga they be keepin' in the house all day with that wide nose."
"My nose is the same as yours faggot."
"Naw, you be lookin' like one of them workin' in the field all day niggers."
"Man, fuck your face, nigga."
"Nigga, please."
And my attention goes back to the girl, her sharp pointed nose glued to the window.
The girl sitting next to me points discretely, looks at me and says, shoulders shaking to withhold laughter, "Awesome, she moved to that seat."
And we can't help but to crack up together as the boys begin to pass a basketball back and forth in front of her inch-thick glasses.
Don't move on the 22, unless you are being felt up or actually sitting in vomit.
You can always get someone crazier.

-photo compliments of goodsista

To The Aid

It is not where you want to be. I think the crazies there are just cognizant enough to actually do...I don't know, something.
So there I am waiting for the bus at 16th and Mission in the middle of the night.
And this woman is hobbling up to me. So I prep myself, toughen myself up, to say, 'No.'
As she gets close, I act as though she is invisible, and of course she asks, "Do you have a band-aid?"
I was taken aback.
I said, "Uhhhh, actually...I do."
And I reached into my bag and produced a bandage.
She smiled a gummy smile and went to speak again.
'Oh, here we go,' I thought.
"Do you have two band-aids," she asked.
"Actually, I do," I said, pulling the second bandage from my purse.
You see, if you are a woman, well equipped with a rack, you understand the pain of an under wire from your bra slipping out and slicing into your flesh while you try to carry on a conversation at dinner and act as though you are not being stabbed in the chest with a ninja ice pick.
That evening I had thrown my torn bra on the sewing machine and stitched it up, but just in case it came undone, I threw two bandages in my purse. And that, that, is exactly what she needed.
She thanked me graciously as she applied the bandages to what appeared to be some sort of serious warts on her hands. She continued with the shower of gratitude, telling me that she could now wait until the morning to go to the hospital.
We talked as I waited. She told me that she lost her teeth because of smoking and she always understood the repercussions, but she was going to smoke anyway.
My heart has grown so callous. This city is so fucked up and I don't even see it.
I was prepared to tell her, 'No!' before I even knew what this other human was going to ask me for.

-miss watson