Author: jeff

Photo by Flickr user rwkvisual

Editor’s Note: Rider Eric sent in this diary on the 6-Parnassus, where he couldn’t help but notice a heart wrenching exchange on the Blackberry phone next to him.

It’s 6:30pm and I’m getting on the 6 bus to go home. Usually, on my way to work, I catch the underground, but coming home, unless I’m getting produce at the market, I like to get door to fucking door.

I nab my favorite seat-towards the back on the right just behind the back doors. I forgo my iPod for a change, look in my bag for a magazine I know I don’t have, check my watch, and slide down into the glossy brown plastic seat.

I look out the window as we pass Powell.  There’s the standard crowd with pocket cameras and fanny packs circling around a group of street performers corralling the tourists like a herd.  I think back to these two boys I once saw dancing for money on the F train in Brooklyn.  One was moving to the beat of the other’s hands. As we approached the stop at Smith and 9th, they came around with a hat and people pulled out change without even looking up from the newspaper. When the doors opened, they ran to the next car.  I watched them through the connecting car windows as the train went underground, the other one now dancing. I look back at the performers at Powell and shrug off the thought that I live in a town that wants to be a city.

I haven’t noticed it until now, but the guy next to me is fiercely thumbing away on his Blackberry. He’s young, unshaved, in ruffled jeans. I never understand why anyone would want a Blackberry if they weren’t a business man.  It’s sort of like a 16 year old choosing to drive a Ford Taurus.

Did I mention how big and bright the fucking screen is on a Blackberry?  So I can’t help but look over at what he’s typing, it’s practically in my face—“You look at things all wrong…that’s not what I meant at all”. He fires it off, drops the phone between his legs and stares ahead, wistfully.

30 seconds later, a buzzing tone comes from his lap. I try to make out what the message says, but he’s cradling the phone towards the window—unaware of me, but still hiding it.  He reads it, lets out a sigh: this isn’t good.
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