Justice on the M
I graduated from college and worked as a paper pusher for two and a half years. Now I am in graduate school at SFSU. I have night classes until 10 p.m. every Thursday and by the time I begin the cold walk to the M station I am exhausted – let’s just say having discussions about butch lesbians growing up in the midwest while having cerebral palsy and getting repeatedly raped by her father and his friends is not exactly uplifting material.
I forgot how Thursdays are a student’s precious underage party-time Fridays. So at the station, at the same time as me, is a flock of young, fertile and virile undergrads. The flock is rowdy. The flock wants attention. The sexual tension stimulated by their open containers and scantily clad is immense. I’m hesitant. There is no escape as the flock is so large they take up the entire train. I start huffing and puffing under my breath and take a seat. The drunk pubescent boy sways in the seat next to me: “blah, you and everyone has an iphone!” I turn my eyes into slits and ignore. Then the girl with the tiara starts screaming like a banshee, but several pitches lower – I dunno, like a manshee? banhe? She runs up and down the train, drunk and muffin toppy. I’m suffocating as one of the flock starts playing the ukulele in addition to tiara’s vocal vomit, not to mention all the other stupid noisy shit going on. “I need a drink, an asprin, and a gun,” I says to my grumpy self.
The M stops. There are cops. Someone more irate than me called the police on the flock. Christmas came early. I see the flashing lights as tiara, uke, et al. get off the train with their open containers. A ten minute delay well worth the wait. Others like me look at each other with grins and sighs of relief. We can breathe. It’s been quiet on the M commute home these past Thursdays. I relish in the peace but know that soon, they’ll be back.
Photo by Flickr user Hvnly