It was late on a Thursday night with no baseball game; no game means no baseball idiots would grace us with their obnoxious presence.
I was to be spared the mean mugging (the express threat,) the anxiety over the colors of my apparel (the implied threat,) and the certainty of standing in a cramped car with dozens of rowdy fans who smell of body odor, alcohol, and cannabis.
After working the last 48 with less than 6 hours combined sleep, I was looking forward to a peaceful ride home. It looked like the stars were moving into conjunction.
Most are reading, sleeping, or listening to their MP3’s.
A middle aged Hispanic couple is talking with each other at the rear of the car. Just behind me, a Caucasian man in a business suit is sitting quietly, ear phones in place. An older African-American woman is seated across from him, already dozing peacefully.
A smattering of about a half dozen other riders make up the remaining party in the car.
As we glide through the transbay tunnel, my fellow riders seem as content as I do. It will be a peaceful ride home.
Pleased with this, I settle in and set up my IPhone for music. Feeling content with the moment, I select random mode, hoping chance will sing to me nicely.
At West Oakland station, passengers step off the car, leaving only the ones mentioned thus far. But, at the 12th Street Oakland Station we pick up what are the principal characters in this episode of…the Twilight Zone.
~
This is the story of the passengers of car 1902 of the Pittsburg-Bay Point Train. It is the story of their shared experience with the bizarre, somewhere between Oakland….and the Twilight Zone.
Enter, Mr. Sodden Bicyclist. He rolls his bike past me and sits two seats ahead, near the starboard door. He looks back at me and smiles, his curly black hair protruding from under his Pittsburgh Steelers knit cap. With his olive complexion, he looks like a Greek version of Harpo Marks.
There is little doubt in looking at his happy flushed face that he had been doing some drunk peddling.
Next, enter Mr. and Ms. Me-Me, a Caucasian couple who must spend every other day in a tanning saloon. We’re talking George Hamilton toasted.
The male half of this catastrophy is dressed in a thin black long sleeve shirt, open wide, to bare an impressive mid-drift and one very large nipple ring. Sporting a large pair of dark aviator glasses and nose ring, his facial hair is cut into a crisp line up that runs from the corner of his jaw to his chin. His mustache is cut thin and narrow. I laugh to myself thinking he looks like a 2011 caricature of George Michael (only with one heck of a tan.)
The female half is a rare beauty. Jet black hair that fades nicely to raspberry ends, falling just below the shoulder. Her face highlighted in an oversized pair of round dark glasses. For this night out, she has donned a black leather jacket with furry leopard cuffs, left open to reveal a blue bikini top and her own impressive mid-drift, complete with belly piercing. But, what made this little ensemble work were her pants, black leather with furry neon-green leggings that ran from her knees to her ankles. I wish to emphasize furry again.
As we drift out the 12th Street station, Aerosmith rips into my ears with “Train Kept a Rollin.” Cool song but not the kind of kind chance I had hoped for.
I didn’t realize it, but the song was an omen, the moment, fraught with portend.
We stop at MacArthur Station. Our car remains unchanged, same riders as before. We sit quietly at the station, paused for the usual transfer.
Next song up, “Riding the Storm Out” by REO Speedwagon. As I listen, I notice the train is not moving as I expect. My attention is first drawn to the Hispanic couple who are looking about, concern wearing on their faces. Removing my headphones, I hear a robotic BART announcement blaring,
“There is an object in the door. Please remove the object.”
I shift my gaze about. Riders in the cars ahead and behind are starring toward our car. As the announcement continues in a loud harsh tone, Mr. and Ms. Me-Me are up and moving toward the rear of the train.
Mr. Me-Me is carrying a black leather duffel that, judging from its look, is mostly empty. Not unlike his brain I presume.
I begrudginly get up and walk over to check out the doors. Their condition appears nominal. But, the canned annoucemnt contiues to blare.
Mr. and Ms. Me-Me are now shouting, “What the f*** is going on with this train.” “What do they expect us to f***ing do?”
It’s hard not to notice that Mr. and Ms. Me-Me seem unusually agitated; their movements are jerky and wild as they pace to and fro. Clearly they are cruising at 60,000 feet with no one in the cockpit. I am guessing alcohol and some kind of stimulant, probably one of any dozen or so from the amphetamine family.
Now, I’m starting to think he may be the OBJECT causing us this trouble.
In the back of my brain a little yellow light begins to flash, tapping out a Morse code-like signal:
Goofball Alert! Goofball Alert! Goofball Alert!
Warning! Predictability Factor Low! Predictability Factor Low!
Yeah. In addition to being a sharp dresser with a tan, the dude is a squirrel too.
Now, Mr. Sodden Bicyclist, slurring to perfection, weighs in, “Man, whas this all about. I gotta geh home cuz my girlfriens mad at meh,” as he starts laughing hoarsely.
I don’t get the same warning light with him. I’ve seen his type many times before. He is a happy drunk, perfectly content to consistently repeat himself.
If I had time to talk with him, I’m sure he would tell me more about why his girlfriend’s mad him.
But, for now, I’ll just have to take him at his word.
By now Mr. and Ms. Me-Me have made there way to the next car.
But just as swiftly as they left, they are returning again, continuing their rant at full volume. Mr. Me-Me is jerking about swimmingly; his nipple ring is bouncing up and down.
Ms. Me-Me is doing a good job of repeating everything Mr. Me-Me is whining about…only in an inebriated-metered fashion.
Before the Me-Me’s get ready to break out a window to escape the menacing doom of the BART technical malfunction, the train operator opens the door, heroically stepping in with a tool in hand.
Mr. Me-Me wastes no time laying into him about the door problem. The train operator asks him why he did not just call him on the intercom, pointing to the phone at the end of the car.
Mr. Me-Me fires back that it’s not his job and he was just going to the rear of the train like the announcement said.
The operator looks at him with a raised and confused brow, then turns to investigate the door problem.
As he does, Mr. Me-Me steps over to him and says, “This f***ing door is your problem, I’m just doing what you told me.”
As I’m standing in the aisle trying not to get hypnotized by Mr. Me-Me’s bouncing nipple ring, the train operator cycles the door with his tool and the problem is fixed.
Now Mr. Me-Me points to the train operator and says, “What the f*** do expect me to do, I went to the back of the train.”
The operator, looking worried at Mr. Me-Me’s advances, tells him, “Ok, I guess you weren’t in this car then, that’s why you couldn’t call.” He backs away cautiously…and steps out of the car.
Meanwhile, Harpo has been doing some drunk dialing. He is talking to his girlfriend on the phone.
“Man, this BART is like the Twilii-Zone honey. Yeah, I’m comin home bu-this train’s like the Twillii-Zone ya know,” he tells her.
The train begins to move to the Rockridge Station.
I sigh as my hopes of a peaceful ride home are left stranded on the MacArthur Station platform. Then I think, well this could get interesting.
As Mr. and Ms. Me-Me settle back into their seats near the front of the car, I make my way back to mine.
I swivel in my seat to face sideways, toward the isles to keep and eye on the Me-Me’s and Harpo at the same time.
The Me-Me’s are to my right and Harpo is to my left.
Mr. Me-Me reaches into his mostly empty black leather duffel bag and pulls out a bottle of wine wrapped in a paper bag. Unscrewing the cap, he take a long pull and hands it to the little Ms. She takes her share and hands the bottle back to her man. Mr. Me-Me removes the bottle from the paper bag and takes a long look at it.
Only a third left till it’s a gonner. He takes another long pull and gives it to his partner.
He begins to preen himself. Using his phone as a mirror, he examines his teeth and hair, grooming and scrubbing as needed with his fingers.
I glance over to Harpo and find him starring at me with this huge inviting smile.
“Hellooo,” he says.
I flash him a sardonic smile.
Gambling that I would make him laugh, I say, “I’m not gay.”
He points to me and bursts into a horsey laugh. Coughing out, he says, “Alright man thas a good one, I’m na gay either. I’m just tryin to get home to my girlfriend. She’s mad at meh cuz I’m late and this train is like the Twilii-Zone.”
“You got that right brother,” I wink at him.
Glancing over at the Me-Me’s, I see they are finishing the bottle of wine. He recaps their bliss and places it back into his mostly empty black leather duffel.
Suddenly, he breaks into a dance-like move. Rolling over in a lightening swift step, he places himself on top of the Ms. in kind of humping position. She responds by laughing and springing her legs straight up, spread in the air.
He repeats his little dance move a few more times, each time doing a bit more grinding.
Harpo’s drunk dialing again, back on the phone with his girlfriend now telling her how sorry he his and that the train ride is like the Twilight Zone.
As we glide through the tunnel to Orinda Station, the Me-Me’s are now mutually exploring the inner reaches of each others tonsils. Ms. Me-Me is laying low on her seat and he is standing bent over simultaneously shaking his rear.
This goes until we reach the Orinda Station.
As we depart Orinda, Harpo is talking to himself now.
“Man, I coulda rode my bike home fasser than this. My girlfriends gonna be mad at meh. This’s like the Twilii-Zone.”
I’m starting to see why his girlfriend’s mad him.
I swivel back to the Me-Me’s. Now, they are both seated low in their seats with their legs raised in the air, starring at each others footwear, which for some insane reason I have no memory of.
Suddenly, Mr. Me-Me’s phone speaker begins to play Paparazzi by Lady GaGa at full volume. They begin to move their feet together in the air as if dancing together side by side, synchronized.
I start thinking that maybe they are auditioning for the next reality TV series, “Dancing with the Goofballs.”
As we depart Orinda Station, I glance at our other riders to see how they are reacting to this exhibition.
The Hispanic couple appears nervous but they are doing their best by pretending not to notice what is going on.
Mr. Suit is still listening to his music in a mannequin like posture. He remains checked out.
The woman across from him is no longer sleeping but just pretending to sleep.
By the time the next song comes up on Mr. Me-Me’s phone, he is up and dancing in the middle of the isle. Ms. Me-Me is laughing and drinking the last of the wine.
With Katy Perry blasting “Last Friday Night” over Mr. Me-Me’s phone, my alert level is beginning to creep up a bit. Mr. Me-Me is glancing over at Harpo and me as he dances, his moves violent and jerky, down the aisle toward us.
Ok. Ok. I get it now. He is a squirrely tanned sharp dresser with the moves like Jagger.
As he nears us, he turns back in a jolting, uncoordinated move toward Ms. Me-Me.
Harpo is again drunk dialing his girlfriend and crying. “I’m sorry hunny, but this BART train’s like the Twilii- Zone tunight.”
He hangs up and turns to look at me. Drying his eyes and laughing, he says, “I coulda rode my bike home fasser than this. My girlfriends gonna be mad at meh.”
I just smile and look at my watch.
At Lafayette Station, the Me-Me’s are now seated. Mr. Me-Me is preening himself again, scrubbing his teeth with his finger as he examines his handiwork in the reflection of his phone.
They continue the air dance they were doing earlier as we move on past Walnut Creek and Pleasant Hill Stations.
Finally, we reach the Concord Station.
I grab my backpack and dash for the door. God help me leave behind the Twilight Zone…for tonight anyway, I think to myself.
Harpo, the Sodden Bicyclist, is muttering something to himself about his angry girlfriend while clutching his bicycle. He is wishing he would have never stopped peddling and gotten on BART. His ticket…to the Twilight Zone.
As for the rest of the passengers in car 1902 of the Pittsburg-Bay Point Train, I part with them as they remain seated, withdrawn within their respective shells. Safely hidden…somewhere deep within the Twilight Zone.
When I step onto the platform, I see the Me-Me’s are off and moving too.
Wonderful, I think to myself, has this “Zone” episode no end?
I walk behind them down the stairs to the ground level and past the Add-Fare machines.
As we exit the station gates, I hear Mr. Me-Me telling Ms. Me-Me, “I need to Add-Fare, where the f*** are the Add-Fare machines?”
Next, he is approaching the Station Agent swearing at her. He is jabbering something about not being able to get back into the station so he could Add-Fare.
Suffering under a strange mix of amusement and distress, I walk to my car and consider the Me-Me’s plight…
Mr. and Ms. Me-Me, their minds broiled as they try to add more fare to fuel their journey to the next station…in the Twilight Zone.
~
When I reflect on this episode, I regret neglecting to engage the Me-Me’s in some fashion.
… too messy I shudder. So, I examine my heart.
I suppose I resent the Me-Me’s of the world for their obnoxious behavior. It’s easier to ridicule them than to try to help them.
We dismiss them; then we resent them. Or, is it the other way around?
But, that’s not right. It’s not really living.
I wonder if having compassion (fused with a healthy measure of prudence) for the goofballs of the world is what it really means to live.
This is what we are taught in any case. And this, more importantly, calls into question my own capacity for such things. I consider my shortcomings in the greater sense.
I walk to my car. I’m disappointed in my own turtle-like self.
I generally have no problem facing potentially dangerous situations. Strangely, the more dangerous, the more attractive it is. Summoning courage in those kinds of situations is not nearly as difficult. It’s alluring, almost seductive.
Yet, when it comes to facing situations that are not so dangerous but just annoying or messy, ones that require compassion, courage is hard to find.
Why is that I wonder? Habit?
I’m just not sure how to approach it. It must take courage too, I suppose, to overcome that kind of resentment.
Are the Me-Me’s of the world deserving of our criticism as well as our prayers and deeds? Or, should I be praying for myself, for a better habit.
Is that what living is really all about? If that’s true, I consider this consequential paradox:
Could it be that it takes more courage to live than to die?
I wonder about this as I complete this day’s journey, to the safety and comfort of my home…and out of the Twilight Zone.
sometimes Life calls us to only observe, other times to act upon. What we're called not to do is blindly react........I truly enjoyed your story Kevin......if nothing else, it prepared you for the next Mr & Ms Me-Me.....
ReplyDeleteThank you Anon for your comments. I am sure you are right.
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