weekly ritual. I was used to the drone of the tracks and the carpeted
seats and floor, signs indicative of the belief that the feet and buns
of Bay Area residents are too good for plastic. The late night BART
police making the rounds at West Oakland in search of delinquents and
the loser stoner with the skateboard that would wander car to car
swearing he just needed one more dollar to make his fare. Few people
make eye contact and many rest drooling on the glass. One guy gave me
a nice hunk of kind once. Someone is always wearing too much leather
on a hot day and someone else is always too ambitious in their plans
to relocate an art installation via public transit.
I almost miss my connection at West Oakland. This is the tipping
point. The scene goes from urban to ghetto and vice versa depending on
if you are going east or west. A mall security guard who also is
employed at the guitar center is discussing the benefits of bike
helmets with a local cyclist who probably participates in critical
mass. Stupid activists. The guard likes to procure musical instruments
on the cheap for his friends but he doesn't tell the guitar center -
apparently they think he is a one man band.
There is a disproportionate number of dreadlocks on the BART. Burning
Man refugees come home perhaps. I am actively trying to avoid eye
contact with the cycling girl - the security guard has left and she is
looking for someone to discuss battery powered headlights with.
Off to catch a bus
--
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