Upskirts and Other Muni Adventures on the 45-Union
Photo by Shanan
Today’s winner is “ArchiJoey,” whose review of the 45-Union includes upskirts, frontal (and back) nudity, and Fleet Week pilots. Just another day on the bus, right?
45 Union/Stockton: Gone are my days of trekking from SOMA to the Inner Richmond on an odd combo of buses that varied based on a complicated algorithm I perfected over 5 years. No, for the last two years I’ve been riding in style on the 45 Union Stockton, or as my 88-year-old grandma calls it the E-car (perhaps it was called this in a pre-WWII era). I say “in style” because I’m usually able to get a seat in the lounge area in the back of the bus with the I-Banker frat boys and Tory Burch bedecked Marina girls.
From there we have a good view at the poor souls who get on in North Beach and have to do the seat tango with the Chinatown grandmas. Though sometimes we have more risque amusement in the back lounge. Once I got a good eyeful of some full frontal and backal nudity of dude who stopped to take a poop on Stockton Street in rush hour traffic.
I have also met several interesting men on the 45. There were the pilots one Fleet Week who offered me twenty bucks to lift up my skirt, the drunk tourist from Chicago who violently fell from his seat as the bus started to lurch up Union Street and got to look up my skirt for free, and the perfect guy who was literally going to the airport to move away from the Bay Area.
But perhaps its greatest attribute is the intense feat of strength that the 45 performs numerous times every day. I honestly do not think that there is a bus that is designed to go up the Union Street Hill. I imagine a group of Muni engineers sitting around trying to devise a way to defy the laws of physics and get a bus over the hill and finally saying “F&*$ it, let’s try it out.” And f*$# all, it worked.
Some days it does slow to a tortoise like crawl as it squeaks up the hill and I silently chant “I think I can, I think I can,” and at least once a week it rolls backward a few yards and I think I’m going to die on the corner of Polk Street, but the driver always seems to get us moving upwards in just the nick of time. So 45 Union/Stockton, I thank you for curing me of my fear of hills, introducing me to the fab footwear of the Marina girls, and maybe someday I can thank you for helping me find a guy who I’ll willingly let look up my skirt.
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