The Journey Home

by William Taylor

It was 10 o'clock, a Friday night and I was done with work. I stepped outside onto Market Street, the Castro. I walked down the stairs to the Church Street Muni Station just in time to catch an inbound train. I sat down in one of those sideways seats in the middle of the car. Across from me stood a smallish woman who looked to be somewhere between 25 and 30 years of age. Her hair was kind of a dreadlocky dirty blonde, and she had a number of tattoos, none of which were interesting enough to describe in any detail. In short, she gave off that general San Francisco punk/hippie/lesbian vibe.

At the next stop a very average looking man in a business suit, perhaps about 50 years old, got on the train and sat down in a seat near to where the punk/hippie/lesbian (who, from now on, for sake of brevity shall be referred to as PHL) stood. Their eyes met and they immediately were chatting as if they were old friends continuing some conversation that had been interrupted some ways back.

The current subject of their very animated conversation was the generally decrepit condition and lack of cleanliness of the train car, brought on, I imagine, by the half empty bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos spilled across the floor. "It's really disgusting how dirty these trains are," PHL was saying. "BART is much cleaner."

"Oh, indeed, indeed!" the Average Man heartily asserted, his head bobbing up and down in total agreement.

"These L trains are usually the worst," she continued. "The M's and the K's are sometimes okay, but these L's are always filthy! Always!"

"Oh, yes! Yes! Without a doubt!" the Average Man affirmed ever more loudly, his head now bobbing up and down at an impressive pace.

At the next stop a young man boarded the train and sat next to me, across from PHL and the Average Man. He was probably in his early twenties and had the college student vibe about him. He wore a fashionable beard, a grey hoodie, and carried a backpack and a small white plastic bag. After sitting down he opened his small white plastic bag and removed from it a small white plastic container. He opened that and inside was some type of salad, let's say macaroni. He began eating with a small white plastic fork.

Sensing impending trouble, I glanced up to find the eyes of PHL and the Average Man sternly fixed upon the hungry student. "Last I heard, there was no eating on the train," PHL said loudly, half to the Average Man and half to the hungry student.

"Oh yes, I do believe there are numerous signs posted saying that very thing!" the Average Man loudly asserted, his head still bobbing at an amazing rate.

"There sure are," PHL continued, "a lot of them!"

The two of them kept talking in this vein until the hungry student reluctantly raised his head and took them in, his eyes tired and disbelieving. He looked back and forth between PHL and the Average Man. He smiled as best he could, and in a weary but polite voice he said, "Yes, I know you're not supposed to eat on the train, but I've had a long day, and I'm really hungry."

Instead of being appeased, the dynamic duo of PHL and the Average Man were simply all the more incensed. "Oh," the Average Man said in a cartoonish voice, as if he were scolding a seven year old child, "I guess some of us are special. Some of us don't have to follow the rules!"

"O yeah," PHL joined in with a similar tone, "I wish I were special enough not to have to follow the rules. That would be great. But I guess I'm not special enough not to have to follow the rules!"

At this point every eye on the train was fixed on our little group. I sat silent in the midst of it all, wanting to speak up on behalf of the hungry student but fearing it would only escalate things even more, so I kept quiet.

The hungry student stared in silence at them a moment, still disbelieving. He then sighed as he put the lid back on his little plastic container of macaroni salad. He put the container along with the little plastic fork back in his little plastic bag. "Okay, okay." he sighed. "Sorry."

PHL and the Average Man said nothing but continued to glare at the hungry student in silence. He met their gaze and eventually said, "Guess you guys had a bad day, huh?"

I immediately sensed somehow this was not the right thing to say, and I think the hungry student sensed it as well, but it was too late. PHL exploded in a fury, and shoved her face into the hungry student's. "Guy?" she screeched, "Do I look like a guy?! I'm not a guy! I'm asking you, do I look like a guy!?"

"Oh, no!" the Average Man chimed in, his head now violently shaking back and forth in the negative. "No! No!" he shouted.

"Do I look like a guy!? Do I look like a guy!?"

"No! No!" shouted the Average Man

This chorus continued unabated until the train stopped at the downtown station where the hungry student and I got off. "Bye," the hungry student offered as he stepped off the train.

This simple word seemed to send PHL into an entirely new level of rage.

"Bye!" she screamed back, as if the word were a cry of war.

"Bye!" she screamed, again and again, her face and hands pressed against the window of the train as the door slid closed and the train started to pull away. Her eyes shone with pure hatred. "Bye! Bye! Bye!"

The hungry student looked at me and I back at him as we walked up to street level. We said nothing. It was public transportation in San Francisco. Things happened. I gave a homeless man my transfer and headed north up Hyde Street toward my apartment.

A man with a wide smile and a spring in his step walked towards me. His eyes met mine and his smile got bigger. "I got me some fresh Run DMC shoes, and I'm gonna party tonight!" He proudly exclaimed. I looked at his feet to find them sporting a pair of Adidas that would truly do the rappers proud. He had a matching hat to complete the ensemble.

"Damn straight," I said in reply.

The man smiled even wider and gave me a thumbs up with both hands before ducking into The Brown Jug. I silently wished him well.

I pushed on homewards until I saw a figure up a ways in front of me, at the corner of Hyde at Geary. From a distance it looked to be a small child, but a small child standing by herself at the corner of Geary and Hyde at 11 p.m. on a Friday night seemed rather unlikely. As I got closer, I noted that the figure was not a child at all, but a small woman. More precisely, a small prostitute. A dwarf prostitute, actually. (I dearly want to say "dwarven," but my spellchecker and dictionary both are teaming up to tell me that "dwarven" is not a word. To this, I say balderdash! I played Dungeons and Dragons for far too many of my formative years, and I don't know how many dwarven ruins, cities, and mines I explored in that time, or how many sets of dwarven armor I have worn.) In truth, she may have been a midget, rather than a dwarf. I'm far from an expert on such matters. In any case, she was small.

I'd encountered this diminutive woman of the night a number of times previously. She was often around the neighborhood on the weekend nights. She was generally pleasant enough to me, usually greeting me with a "Whatcha doin' tonight, honey," or "Lookin' for a date?" to which I would mumble something incoherent in return and continue on my way. Tonight I gave her my usual sheepish smile as I passed, and she smiled back and said, "Blowjob for 100 dollars!"

"No," I said, "thanks."
"60 dollars!"
"Not tonight," I said.

"Why not?" she said, quickly becoming disdainful of me.

"I gotta get home."
"Can you just give me five dollars, then?"
"No, I said, I can't."

"It's just five dollars," she replied, now obviously and thoroughly disgusted with me. I figured if she was charging 100 dollars a blowjob, and gave at least one blowjob a day, she was making more money than I was, so, if anything, I should be asking her for five dollars.

I just shrugged and continued on as she shouted after me, "It's just five dollars! Fucking cheapskate! Five dollars!" I decided I didn't like the dwarven prostitute anymore and from now on would cross the street to avoid her.

I stopped at the liquor store at Post and Hyde for something to drink. Outside the store a skinny hooker stood on the corner and yelled for someone named Sal. "Sal!" she cried again and again, "Sal!" Sal didn't seem to be around, or was ignoring her. Her cries were desperate and mournful, like some animal abandoned in darkness. I walked past and she didn't acknowledge me. "Sal!" she howled, "Sal!"

I walked the last block to my apartment building. I took a quick glance around to make sure no one was waiting to mug me as I opened the gate to the lobby. A man who lives in the building was violently mugged a few weeks back as he walked home from a neighborhood bar. I got into the lobby and shut the gate behind me. I checked my mail. Nothing good. I got into my apartment, took a beer from the six pack I bought at the store and put the rest in the fridge. I looked outside the window of my living room, and the skinny hooker was still on the street corner, still crying for Sal. I closed the blinds, sat down on the couch and drank my beer.

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