Pants on the Ground

As those close to me well know, I am a devoted planner. However elaborate or simple the plan is, however open-ended or hazy it may be, I still appreciate the fact that one exists.

Therefore, I’ll have you know that I find this guy’s lack of planning quite amusing.

Here’s how it went:

It was pretty late, and my Fremont train had just arrived at MacArthur station. The platform was crowded with late-night partiers heading home from South Oakland’s seedy downtown bars.

As the train boarded, the station agent suddenly yelled over the loudspeaker.

“BART Police, we have a 20 year old male, black jacket and blue jeans, faregate violation, west platform, please respond.”

Great, I thought. My train was boarding at the west platform. Here we go. I looked out the darkened window of the train as the operator closed the train doors for safety.

Suddenly, Mr. No-Plan came running up the stairs and onto the platform, pursued by two BART police officers. The dude’s pants were practically falling off, and he was trying to evade the police while desperately trying to hold on to them.

The guy waddled as fast as he could go while simultaneously holding up his pants. But he didn’t try to run for an elevator, or an exit, or a train. 

No. 

He decided he’d take his chances at waddle-running the length of the platform. Because, of course, he would have no problem evading two flat-out sprinting BART officers while running down two thousand feet of platform while attempting to keep his pants up.

I have no idea what he thought he would do if he beat the overwhelming odds and actually arrived at the end of the platform. There was a twenty foot drop to the electrified trackway. What was he gonna do? Jump, break one or both legs on impact, and then fry in a shower of electric sparks?

Dude, you should have just paid the $2.00 entrance fare. Dying is not worth $2.00.

As you might have guessed, the guy only made it about ten steps before the one of the two officers made a flying tackle that sent the man sprawling. The train began boarding once again as soon as he was captured, and just as the train was about to pull away, I heard the man ask the officers a very important question:

“If you handcuff me, then who’s going to hold up my pants?”

The Preacher

Every so often, I will be forced to ride with a crazy old homeless man I have dubbed “The Preacher.” The dude’s insane, and likes people to know it. The guy looks to be about sixty, and wears a signature plaid hooded coat that looks like it was new sometime between the Mesozoic and the Cretaceous period. The guy probably won it in a poker game against a Tyrannosaurus.

Everybody on the train knows the guy. They’ve all seen him at least once before and the crowd generally seems to cringe and look away whenever he gets on.

He shuffles down the entire length of the train before choosing a car to verbally terrorize. Before he begins his lengthy rant, he stands up, supports himself by clinging white-knuckled on a vertical handrail, and takes a few warm-up breaths before the sermon.

He takes a wheezy breath, and then begins.

“The WORLD... Is about to END,” he says with great dramatic flair, pinwheeling his one free hand not clinging to the handrail frantically in the air.

His first outburst is met with silence and a few embarrassed coughs and throat-clearings.

As if he hasn’t already made his point, he surveys the passengers like they are his royal subjects, and reiterates his original point.

“PEOple. THE WORLD IS ABOUT TO END! You are just SITTING there watching your LIFES ENDING.”

Not entirely true. Some people are STANDING and watching their “lifes” ending. There aren’t enough seats for everyone to be sitting watching the end of their “lifes.” Get it right, buddy.

In stilted sentences that trail off at the end, he continues.

“YOU ARE JUST REAdin’. Your NEWSPAPers. And your MAGAZines. You’re LOOKIN’. At your CELL PHONes. PreTENDIN’ not to be LISTENIN’ to ME!”

He walks up to a poor passenger trying to ignore the guy by pretending to be asleep.

The Preacher gets right in the passenger’s face. I’m sure the smell isn’t that great.

“YOU’RE Pretendin’. To Be. A-SLEEP!”

He yells A-SLEEP at the top of his lungs, and the passenger flinches, but stays “a-sleep.”

The Preacher chuckles to himself and continues.

“GOD... WILL NOT SAVE YOU. JESHUA is king. JESHUA.”

Not exactly sure who this Jeshua is. Maybe he thinks HE’S Jeshua. Excuse me, do we have a psychiatrist on this train? No? Darn.

The Preacher goes on blathering about this guy named Jeshua and the end of the world for about thirty minutes before finally exiting the train at Fruitvale station.

“The WORLD... WILL END. SOON!” He yells before stepping out of the car.

No, really buddy? You’ve only been telling us that for the last, oh, I don’t know, HALF HOUR.

He sticks his head back through the door and yells “GO OFF TO YOUR JOBS! ENJOY YOUR DAY! BUT YOU’RE ALL DOOMED!”

Thanks for that. Enjoy your day! You’re doomed! 

:-)

The BART Burger

It was late, and I was on a Fremont train heading home after an evening exam. I was really tired after the test, and all I really wanted to do was rest on the ride back. The train was fairly empty, and it seemed like I had just settled in when I was rudely jolted by the sound of a massive...

*CHOMP*

I look around, annoyed, and saw the woman across from me had just sunk her teeth into a massive hamburger. A take-out container was propped in her lap, and she really seemed to be enjoying her dinner. A little too much, maybe.

The burger was huge. I mean, like heart-attack-on-a-plate huge. The thing probably sported a whopping 1500 calories, and it was loaded down with all the fixin’s. The bun was a good eight inches around, and it was dripping with bacon, mayo, onion rings, lettuce, tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, and a variety of sauces. The patty alone probably weighed at least four pounds. Ugh. I swear, if the train had broken down in the tunnel, all of us passengers could have survived off of the burger alone for at least a week.

She obviously didn’t know the age-old rule: Never Eat Anything Bigger Than Your Head.

The lady chewed noisily for a minute, stared bug-eyed at the hamburger, and then dove in for another massive mouthful.

*CHOMP*

When she pulled away, sauce globs and bacon bits were running down her face, dripping off of her chin into the take-out box. At least that was the idea, but her aim wasn’t that great. The sauce was going everywhere: on her hands, all over the seats, and down to the floor of the car.

She went on this way for at least half an hour: lip-smacking, chomping, dripping, and gulping until the ENTIRE burger had been consumed.

And then she got up, and exited the train without a word. She left her take out box in the puddle of burger sauce on the floor, never bothering to clean up after herself.

The next day, I noticed the standard little “NO EATING/DRINKING/SMOKING” signs in the train cars had been complemented with small symbols. Underneath NO EATING, there was a picture of a hamburger with a line through it.

I wonder if Burger Lady had anything to do with the sudden change of signage.

The Axeman

There is a fine balance between enough cologne and too much of the stuff. And in this passenger's case, bathing in deodorant spray was just another part of his daily routine. 

Cutie and I were heading toward the North Bay, and our Daily City train had just stopped at the Oakland Coliseum station. The train was oddly full, and she and I were forced to squeeze ourselves in the very first row of forward-facing seats, the ones with little legroom due to the close proximity to those seats reserved for the handicapped.

Now, normally I would have preferred to stand in such a busy car, but at that moment I was sitting in the best seat on the entire train. I tell you, there was absolutely no place I’d rather be than squeezed in next to her. I was the luckiest guy alive.

I could go on, but I’m sure you want to hear the story.

Anyway, this twentysomething dude gets on at Coliseum, and decides to take the handicapped seat right next to us. As the train departs, the dude reaches into his pocket and takes out a can of spray-on Axe deodorant.

He shields his eyes and, without a care where he’s pointing the can’s nozzle, lets loose a cloud of the overpowering cologne. Right into our faces. The dude really lays it on thick: he practically used the entire can. I swear, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even see Cutie through the dense mist, which was a problem. If I was going to die, at least I’d like to gaze into her eyes as I did.

I mean, come on, buddy. A few sprays of the stuff would be fine. A little goes a long way. Have you even heard of the saying ‘less is more?’ Obviously not.

I tell you, the guy would have gone up like a human torch if he got anywhere near a lit match. Apparently he doesn’t know how flammable the stuff is.

As the cloud slowly clears, the guy takes a cursory sniff. He gets an annoyed look on his face. He uncaps the Axe once again. He points it at himself, and proceeds to empty the can.

Apparently half a can of Axe is not enough to make his point. No, The Axe Man must use the entire can.

But of course, this is all in a day’s work for him. 

The Axe Man: Depleting the Ozone, One Can at a Time.

Something's Fishy

I’m not a huge fan of riding back from the North Bay at rush hour, but occasionally I found myself in exactly this predicament. Packing in like sardines in a smelly train car is not exactly my idea of a pleasant afternoon, thank you very much.

So I had been standing jammed in a crowded Fremont train for about six stops. The annoying passenger squished next to me felt it necessary to park his rolling shopping cart right at my feet, using my shoe as a wheel block. For the past half an hour the metal contraption had been rolling over my feet every time the train took a banked corner. I wasn’t too thrilled.

We finally arrived at San Leandro, a popular station among exiting passengers, and Cart Dude decided to off-board, making sure to roll his heavy cart over my feet one last time, just for good measure.

I looked around, trying desperately to find an empty seat. Just then, an elderly Asian gentleman stood up from his seat, and gathered his shopping bags before exiting the car. As the man walked past me, I caught the distinct odor of what smelled like rotting seafood.

Fighting the gag reflex, as well as a few other weary passengers who were eyeing his recently vacated seat, I removed my backpack and sat down. I was overjoyed to have finally scored a chair, and I relaxed as I dropped my backpack to the floor.

SPLISH.

I was confused. It wasn’t raining outside, and the floors of the BART cars generally do not otherwise go “splish.”

I slowly looked down when that same hideous fishy odor hit me. The smell almost knocked me out.

I was horrified. My backpack was swimming in a puddle of cloudy yellowish fish juice, which must have leaked from the man’s shopping bag.

I scooped up my backpack and practically leaped from the seat. I stood in the aisle and surveyed the damage.

The sludge was everywhere. As soon as the train picked up speed, the liquid began running toward the back of the car. I felt really sorry for the woman wearing open-toed sandals. She was in the direct path of the oncoming slop.

Angry, I rode the rest of my commute standing. Right before I exited the train, a fellow standing passenger noticed the empty seat and took it. He put down his briefcase.

SPLISH.

Marry Me?

I get it. BART is really weird. For some reason it seems to attract the strangest people, and yet I still choose to ride it every day. I can usually just pop in my earbuds and tune out the rantings and ravings of the crazies, but every so often something happens that is just too odd not to take notice.

I was riding toward San Francisco in the early afternoon, and was considering myself quite lucky that I had just happened to step into a fairly clean and odorless train car. I mean, a clean car? An odorless clean car? I should have bought a lottery ticket.

Anyway, I was sitting toward the rear of this car, counting my blessings. It was just about then when the sliding doors between cars opened up and a man slowly stepped into the car. The guy was about 50, was a little overweight, and he was wearing a tuxedo.

Yeah, you read that right. A tux. On BART.

He slowly sauntered down the aisle of the train car, and approached the first woman he came to. Said poor victim was, at the moment, trying to concentrate on reading a magazine on her e-reader.

Mr. Tux Man took his time leaning on the seat adjacent to her, straightening his sleeves and removing his white-banded velvet hat.

He turned toward her, and, like a magician, pulled out a small ring box from his jacket pocket and dropped to one knee.

The lady looked up from her e-reader just in time to witness Tuxedo’s move.

“Hey, baby,” the dude asked her from one knee, “Will you marry me?”

He opened the ring box to display a lackluster fake diamond that probably cost a little less than my daily parking permit.

The dude then flashed the woman a toothy crooked smile.

“Um... No.” The lady responded, a little freaked out.

“Really, baby? You sure? I’m a reeeeeeealy nice guy,” he said.

It was at this point that I reached into my backpack to ready my can of mace. I really didn’t want to get involved, but if I needed to be the good Samaritan, then dammit, I was going to be the good Samaritan.

The woman said no once again, and the creepy dude closed the ring box, stood up, and moved on. He took about ten steps before he turned to the his next victim. This girl appeared to be a student, some 32 years his junior, yet he still repeated his act and asked her if she wanted to be his wife.

He moved on pretty quickly when the girl pulled a taser out of her purse.

In the end, the man made five attempts at securing himself a spouse before heading toward the next car.

Right before he moved on, he gestured wildly and raised his voice in frustration.

“I GOTTA do SOMETHING with this RING!”

Hey, buddy. You could try to get your money back, but I’m not sure Dollar Tree’s return policy applies to items from the plastic toy dispenser.

The Platform Powerwalker

Most people have a reason for riding the trains. Some are commuting to work or school, others are traveling to a baseball game or are returning from visiting friends. But every so often a commuter is so out of place you can’t figure out exactly what they are doing.

Cutie (as I will affectionately call her) and I were making our way back from a trip to the North Bay. It was getting late, and we had gotten caught up in the evening commute. Tired of being packed in the train car like sardines, Cutie suggested we transfer at San Leandro station just to get out of the train, and I happily agreed. The wait was about ten minutes, so we decided to hang out toward the end of the platform to talk and watch the tired city of San Leandro begin to close down for the evening.

It was then that Cutie pointed out the Platform Powerwalker. Across the tracks, a middle-aged woman in business attire was purposefully marching from one end of the opposite platform to the other. The BART platforms are built to accommodate ten-car trains, and it took the woman a while to walk all the way down to the end. She determinedly made the trek, pacing as fast as she could walk. I tell you, the lady was on a mission.

She reached the end of the elevated platform, walked directly to the edge, and peered over the railing. She spent a minute or two looking over the edge before straightening up, turning on her heel, and again marching quickly toward the end of the platform from which she came.

Cutie and I watched the woman as she marched to the far end, once again taking a moment to peer over the platform edge upon her arrival.

We watched in awe as she trekked back and forth, back and forth, each time looking over the edge of the platform as if something new might have appeared on the ground below.

Sadly, our train arrived before we could determine what the lady was doing.

But still, as our train departed the station, the Platform Powerwalker again turned on her heel, and began making her trek, nobly marching back up the platform in the pursuit of...

Something. Not sure exactly what.

Hold the Doors!

Anyone who has ever ridden a subway has at one point in their life just missed a train. We all have stories about watching the doors close right as we are about to board the car. (Someday I’ll get around to writing up my story, trust me.)

It is sadly humorous to occasionally see businesspeople in full suits or high heels sprinting down the platform only to miss the train by inches, but hey, as the old saying goes: “You wait for the train.”

So I was nearing the end of my commute, and was just about to leave Ashby BART station on a northbound Richmond train. Downtown Berkeley, my stop, was just three minutes away. Three minutes. Three short minutes.

A familiar ping sounded over the car’s PA system, letting passengers know that the doors were about to close, and if you didn’t want a severed arm or leg, you’d better stay the f*** away. It was at that moment that a youngish dude decided to run down the escalator, holding on to his falling pants for dear life. He stuck his Air Jordan in the closing door in order to make the train.

The doors reopened for a second due to the blockage, and the robotic digital BART lady yelled over the intercom that, “the DOORS in this car are OBSTRUCTED. Please stand clear of the doors so the train can DEPART.”

I had figured the guy would go and sit down, but when I turned to look he was STILL STANDING holding the doors open. The nerve of the guy.

It was at this point that the operator decided to intervene. She activated the PA system in the train, and said, “Hey, buddy, you better let go of my doors!”

The dude craned his neck out of the train car and looked back up the platform.

“Hold on!” he called. “There’s a disabled person coming!”

All the while, the train’s computer is trying to close the obstructed door, and at fixed intervals, the angry subway robot lady is digitally yelling “the DOORS in this car are OBSTRUCTED. Please stand clear of the doors so the train can DEPART.”

“The DOORS in this car are--” *doors try to close* “the DOORS in this car are OBSTRUCTED. Please stand clear of the doors so the train can DEPART.” “the DOORS in this car--”

The operator was back on the intercom. “I’m gonna call the po-lice! You’d better let go of my doors!”

Now everyone in the car was craning their necks to watch the drama unfold.

“Hold ON!” The dude called.

Just then, a skinny guy in an oversized South Pole T-shirt waddled into the car holding up his pants. The dude and the skinny guy sit down, and the doors finally close.

A passenger from the front of the car yells, “He ain’t disabled!”

The dude looks down the car, grins, and yells back, “My bad!”

Headbanger

It was one of those early spring days, just when it was getting warm, that I was heading to school (as usual). Lemme tell you, I’d much rather be outside in the February sun than being trapped in a stuffy train car, but I guess that’s the downside of college. Or maybe the downside of commuting to college. Yeah, that’s more like it.

So I had just boarded the train and settled down in the partially-soiled greenish fabric seat. The car smelled like a cross between old coffee, puke, and some guy’s overpowering cologne. No, the puke smell was definitely stronger than the rest. I eyed the strangely conspicuous wet brown stain on the seat next to me, shuddered, and tried to put it out of my mind.

I pulled out my laptop to do some work when I heard the strangest hollow-sounding thumping noise. BART cars are notoriously noisy, and since they haven’t been replaced since they were new in the 1970s, such thumping noises usually go forgotten. But this sound was different. It was very close by.

I wasn’t that keen on the idea of writing that essay today, so any distraction seemed like a blessing. I slowly looked behind me and quickly found the source of the thumping. An oldish woman, about two seats behind and to the right of me, was obsessively fixated on thumping her skull with her fist.

I did sort of a double-take due to the strange nature of the situation. I mean, the woman was using her fist to smash herself in the head. Over and over again.

I felt really sorry for the woman. She’s probably homeless, I thought, with an untreatable mental condition that keeps her from being able to control her outbursts. But as I looked closer, I noticed the woman was dressed very nicely, and was typing on a MacBook laptop between thumps. This was odd.

The man behind her was also taking notice of her strange head-slamming. He was trying to read a newspaper and seemed to be having a hard time concentrating. The man finally became fed up, and tapped her on the shoulder. 

“Miss?” he asked her patiently. “Are you okay? You’re... You know...” the man pointed at his head and made a circle motion with his finger.

The woman turned around, smiled pleasantly, and said,

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine, thanks. I have a big presentation to do. The pounding helps me concentrate. Kickstarts the brain, you know?”

...

Okaaaaaay. Whatever works for you, lady.

I turned back to my computer, and tried to begin typing.

PoundPoundPoundPoundPound. Pause. POUNDPOUNDPOUNDPOUND. Pause.

Hey, at least one of us was concentrating.