Outbound

The number 38 bus is almost always full. After work, Lydia walks two blocks east to Stockton to catch the outbound coach. She finds a seat in the front section of center-facing seats reserved for seniors and persons with disabilities. A recorded voice reminds her that she will need to vacate her seat if any such people board the bus.

She settles in, relieved to be off her feet for the long, cross-town trip, then hears one young man ask another, “Hey man, what’s that stand for? I always forget.”

“My sweatshirt? It’s USSR in Russian: CCCP is Russian for USSR.”

“Oh, right, right.”

“Yeah, you have no idea how much shit I get for wearing this thing. It’s like, it’s just a fuckin’ sweatshirt, you know?”

“Sure, sure man, I can see that. But you know, people are ingnorant, right?”

“Right?!”

The older woman to Lydia’s left interjects, “Now you know you wear that shirt exactly so that folks will give you a hard time. You ain’t wearing that to not get noticed, now are you? Mm hmm, I got your number.” The young man ignores her, flashing a look at his inquisitor. She continues, addressing Lydia, “I don’t know who he thinks he’s kidding, but you know as well as I do what he’s really looking for.” Lydia remains silent, breathing in slow, shallow wisps, trying to adjust to the viscous smell of breath, body, stale beer, and soiled underpants.

After a while, the passengers with the farthest destinations quit counting stops and simply ride along. Some busy themselves with books and magazines, as much for the distraction as for inhibiting conversation. Lydia has forgotten her compulsory prop today, and rides unarmed against unsolicited chit chat.

“Look at this! It’s like iPod Nation up in here!” exclaims the woman to Lydia’s left. “Little white earplugs, everyone’s got little white earplugs.” She goes on in response to Lydia’s silence, “Oh, you must not wanna talk today. Mm hmm, I see.”

A teenager in an oversized sweatshirt gets on at the intersection of Geary and Jones and begins tagging the inside of the bus’s window with a yellow Mean Streak marker. He overhears the conversation from across the aisle and shouts, “Nobody wants to talk to your crackhead ass!”

“Nobody wants to talk to my crackhead ass? I don’t see nobody wanting to talk to your punk ass either. Disrespectful motherfucker.

“Ah, Babygirl, I know you know what I mean. You see that boy across the aisle, calling me names: You think you can trust him because he’s saying what you think, because he thinks what you think. But how do you know you can trust what you think? You see an old woman on the bus, you think ‘Listen to this crackhead telling me what’s wrong with the world! What’s wrong with the world is crackheads!’ You think I’m after money, think you can make me go away with money. I tell you what: I’ll take your money. And I’ll go away if you want. But you won’t. You’ll be here all the way to 37th Avenue, and you’ll be back again tomorrow. And I’ll see you come and go. Yes, I will.”

The recorded voice reminds passengers on crowded busses to always protect purses and wallets. Lydia makes a subtle physical adjustment in compliance with this instruction. The woman encourages her: “Go on, make yourself comfortable!

“I tell you what the real problem is: the children of Cain have lost their way. You – you’ve cozied yourself right on out to the edges: satellite pictures of the crevices and hovels, the oceans and the forests. Hmph! Those pictures’ve driven the edge-dwellers into the center, and now the march-steppers have no place to walk – and you wonder now why they ride the bus with you. You take their safe place, they’ll take yours. Yes, Babygirl, they’re here, already, even though they’re not meant for this place. The Lord put them where he intended and you’ve gone and driven them out into the daytime world where they do not belong. Yes, indeed, the march-steppers have lost their walking-place, lost their hiding-place.

“You don’t believe me. That’s ok. You’re afraid of me, but you know what I mean. And you know it’s true. You’ve lost track of who’s crazy anymore. I know. You think that’s your problem. Your problem is you don’t trust how very sane I am.”

“Please exit through the rear doors,” implores the recorded voice.

Near Divisadero the woman takes on a more intimate tone with the girl to her right. “It’s the monsters I’m talking about. You know this. I’m asking you, who do you think your monsters are? They’re the same monsters that have always been. All the monsters in all the stories: they’re real. They’re still here, too, only now they got no place to rest, thanks to you. They are unconfined, you see? They needed to be confined. You need them to be confined. You look like a smart girl. You know who Cain is? All the monsters that walk the earth: they’re of the same bloodline, you know. And the Lord placed them where he saw fit, at the edge of the world. Where is the edge now? Where’re they gonna live now that you’ve blown the forest up with all its secrets clear as day? You don’t need to see the secret places! You have no business in the secret places! Shouldda let mysteries be mysteries.

“Motherfucking satellites! Taking pictures of us in our sleep! They have the license plate of this bus right now broadcast on the computer for all the world to see. What do you think you’re safe from? You think you’re safe from me? I’m the one – I’m the one who’s not safe. I know.

“You! I got your number, too, mother fucker!” She shouts to the boy across the aisle who has begun freestyling a song about crackheads and fellatio.

“Babygirl, I see you getting ready to leave. You’re gonna get off here today and call up your girlfriend and tell her, ‘That same ol’ cooky crackhead was at it again today. Batty as all-get-out, talking about monsters and shit.’ Mm hmm, I know, ‘Now how am I gonna explain just how goddamn batty this old bitch is?’ Tell her I sat too close to you, that’s how you knew I was crazy – no sane person sits this close to a stranger. But I’ll tell you what: you are no stranger sweetheart. I saw you yesterday, and I’ll see you tomorrow. See you every day til the end. Every day til the end. I’ll see you, too, you little punk-ass motherfucker! Yeah, you! ‘Watch the Lord beat you down good, yes. With your sick lil’ self thinkin’ ‘bout laying hands on me… mmm, see the day the Lord lays hands on you and slits you from your navel to your neck. Oh, it’s coming! Yes, and when the Lord speaks, he will speak to the multitudes, and the multitudes will hear!”

Lydia gathers her things and makes her way to the rear doors two stops early. She steps down when the green light flashes.