A__holes on the Train

A Study of Humanity on Public Transportation
By Sam P. Clemmons

I've been involved in some spirited discussions where it's been stated that to fulfill your obligation as a citizen it is mandatory that you support society at large by utilizing it's public schools and most importantly, it's public transportation. I did my time in the first some years back and continue my relationship with the latter by riding Bay Area Rapid Transit whenever possible. Being a semi-shut in who enjoys his time alone I sometimes find a train ride with the people of my community refreshing, a chance to observe, even fall into conversations if the opportunity arises. And then there are the rides where you cross paths with a BART train asshole, which I will be discussing in some detail at this juncture.

There are minor assholes, the common assholes, the ones you come across every other ride, and then there are the extreme assholes who you luckily only run into once a year or so, depending on the frequency of your riding. The assholes appear in all shapes and sizes, men and women, young and old, all different ethnicities. Their common trait is an obliviousness, a lack of shame, an inability to give a rat's ass about any of the people around them.

The minor assholes are sometimes equipped with a device that allows them to fill the train car with their choice in music, which for some reason is always God awful. The guy with the boombox is never playing The Beatles, or some beautiful opera that would bring your spirits up and make your day brighter, it's some shitty pop rap, something already popular on the radio that the asshole feels he should continue to expose us to. The tiny speakers in the asshole's device can't handle the bass, they sputter and crackle, even if the music was good it would sound like garbage. The noise interrupts your read, or your nap, or just your thoughts. You want to get up, walk down the car to the asshole's seat and ask: "have you never heard of headphones? I believe they're pretty common these days," but you don’t. Neither do the other passengers around you who you can feel bristling with irritation as well. The guy with the boom box doesn't notice either, that's why he's an asshole.

There are also the assholes that do come equipped with headphones but don't grasp the concept. They sit in their seat with the ipod and sing along from 16th street to North Berkeley. This asshole is on the train but don't point that out, in their minds they are in the shower or in their car, belting it out for the sick freaks at the American Idol auditions. Like the asshole with the boom box this person's taste leaves much to be desired, plus they can't sing. We're talking about assholes here.

Some assholes on the train are also assholes off the train and they discuss this with their friends, loudly, so everyone can hear. They don't give a fuck about that bitch because she don't know shit about shit. This asshole over here talking to his friend is letting everybody know that he is making a lot of cash at his new job. It's obvious he wants everyone to know he's getting paid and it's obvious he's lying. There's the asshole on his phone, across the aisle from me, yelling at his friend for ditching him in the City and forcing him to be "riding on the train with all these assholes." Wait, we're the assholes?

If you ride the train late then chances are you will come across a drunken asshole. This asshole is yelling for no apparent reason, letting everyone know he's on one now. He's a happy asshole but a little edgy, not sure if he's too drunk or just drunk enough. Some of us may have been that asshole once or twice in our lives. Best case scenario they yell something for the people in the car to enjoy and laugh along with. Worst case the drunk fills the car with the stink of their vomit or urine.

There are some assholes that you will cross paths with on BART that are members of the animal kingdom. These can be found in the purses of strange women who in some cases actually have prescriptions for these tiny lap dogs that yip and yap their way through the tunnels and under the Bay. These ugly bastards cry out until their "mothers" feed them pieces of red vines and Cheetos and then they stare at you in your seat and growl like the little ghouls they are.

The big German Shepard assholes sometimes come aboard as well, accompanied by their human partners from the BART police. These assholes always seem to get on after I've smoked a joint and am fully alight with paranoia. They never seem to really notice, possibly using their keen senses to track down the attractive smells of bombs and knives instead of pot. I don't mess with them and they don't mess with me. I also don't mess with their human counterpoints either who are known to cuff you, put you on your stomach, and execute with a shot in the back if the feeling moves them, especially if you're young and black.

Another extreme asshole that can pop up at inopportune times is the con artist/robber/BART train bully. I came across this breed when I was taking a journalism class in the City. This asshole approached me at the ticket machine and confessed that he had just savagely beaten a friend of his after catching him in an intimate embrace with his girlfriend. He told me, red eyed and upset, that he needed to get out of town fast to evade prosecution and would I be so kind as to lend him the money to do so? I had no money, and said so, at which time his face went blank and he strode away with less than a grunt.

A week or so later, who do I see approaching me at the ticket machine but my friend the broken hearted batterer. He came with the exact same schpiel: betrayal, violence, and would I be so kind as to aid a friend in need? I was honest, which was stupid: “dude, you told me the exact same thing a week ago”. The con man's eyes stayed red but changed, as they shifted from desperation to intimidation. The con man morphed into bully as he said: "Well why don't I just take that money motherfucker."

I gave him the money, three dollars, and with it went a little bit of my manhood. He walked away, sneering back at me as he climbed the subway stairs. I hoped to God that would be the last time I would cross paths withs this particularly foul form of asshole but no, just a little over a month later, there he was. I was coming out of a train and going through the turnstile when I spotted him and he spotted me. He didn't recognize me but he spotted me, an easy mark, just like he had probably concluded the last two time he approached me. My heart beat kicked up and sweat broke out across my scalp. I panicked, thought about running, but he was on top of me.

"Hey man, shit. I just  found my girl with my boy man. No playing! I beat that fool. I didn't know what to do, you know what I mean? What would you have done man? I got'a get out of here man, f'real. Can you spare a little cash brother? I gotta stay low, you know what I mean?"

I looked at the asshole, right in his eyes, and I said: "Sclebu ba, rafffen toff bel higha ban back, ouden duden viddle saften tuddi braghen."

The con expression shifted through intimidation to confusion and on to irritation, I knew I had succeeded in my ruse. The BART bully had run into a mark that couldn’t produce, some sort of immigrant, a marble mouthed European visiting the City. He scowled and moved on, I took a breath and marveled at my quick thinking and good fortune.

I continue to ride the train and run across assholes from time to time but it doesn’t bother me. Sure, public transportation can bring out the dregs but it beats the alternative. I imagine being in my car, driving along the streets and freeways, and all the times I could be getting cut off by assholes, hit by assholes, honked at by assholes. Behind the wheel, that where the true assholes of America dwell.

Sam Clemmons is an essayist and critic for Fiber Magazine