There’s no crying over spilled Goldfish on Muni
Today, I saw the best and the worst of San Francisco on a Muni bus.
I was precariously balancing a drink and a big ol’ bag of Goldfish as this well dressed older man shoved me aside to get to his seat. The Goldfish sprayed across the floor as the man sneered at me, and the drink slipped from my hand.
And yet—moments before a row of elderly Chinese grandmas tasted the energizing flavor of Monster Ultra Sunrise (TM), a tiny hand caught mine and steadied it.
One disaster abated! Yet, I still faced a bus full of Goldfish and regret. I slinked away in shame, taking part in the worst of San Francisco traditions—walking away from a mess and hoping someone else takes care of it.
But the grandmas—the grandmas looked so disappointed.
“We’ve lived here our whole lives, son. We love this City and we love its buses. We know you can do better, child,” their eyes told me.
I sighed, and shuffled over to sweep the floor with my shoes. It was awkward and inefficient—every time the bus moved, the pile of snacks moved with it.
I felt a tap on my shoulder—one of the grandmas smiled that classic gap toothed SF Chinese grandma smile at me, and offered a page of Sing Tao Daily.
(Yes, I did just subtly drop that I know the name of one of the major Chinese language newspapers in SF, I’m just that cultured, ladies. My DMs are open.)
Another grandma grabbed my drink and backpack, and I could feel a weird energy swell in the bus as a crowd of Chinese seniors began to chatter in excitement.
I thought, for a moment, how surreal it was to be on a Muni bus, furiously sweeping a pile of Goldfish crackers using a Chinese newspaper and being cheered on by a squad of Chinese seniors. Even the fancy man who caused this fancy mess couldn’t help but join the chorus with a few mostly unhelpful but well-intentioned tips (“You gotta sweep, son,” is not great advice to a man who is already sweeping, but…thanks?)
Finally, the Goldfish were in place, the crowd of elders were practically about to burst (I could swear bets were taking place), and then—
—the doors opened!
—“NOW, ARMAND,” I shouted, for no discernible reason, and—
—I SWEPT, with all the might a skinny hipster Millenial who occasionally does Barry’s could muster—
—and they were GONE, little golden crumbles fluttering in the wind.
I pumped my fist and cheered, secretly hoping I was in the kind of movie where the crowd would cheer with me.
I was not. But the lady who’d handed me the paper said I could keep it, nodded her head, and said, “Good job.”
“FULTON AND GROVE,” announced the driver.
Fuck. I’d missed my stop.
The elder shook her head and laughed.
“There’s always another stop.”
Like I said—the best.
Featured photo by @Yellowlineart. Post photo by @roopisonfire.