Muni Through North Beach

(ON HOW FERNAND'S PARENTS MET)

Curse the late hours of San Franciscan Thursdays.
He’d always walk down Stockton Street, through the crowded back streets of a bustling Chinatown. Worn small faces, lots of open-air produce, Cantonese, Mandarin— he really couldn’t tell the differences, it all meant the same place. Taking Muni was only for whenever he finished up late at the bar. If he’d chosen a job where sobriety was not mandatory— the bus rides would seem less dreadful if he could indulge in between his breaks.


She hated the awful music blaring through someone’s headphones in the back of the bus. She’d always been warned the treachery of back Muni seats. Her dark eyes scanned the 30, standing lankly and restless. She was taller than most of the other riders that held listless onto the overhead rails. Her coral lipstick upon her chapping lips she pressed tightly together to mute any thoughts she supposed were about to escape. She never liked talking. But it was best she conversed as much as she could— hoping to improve her English. At that moment she was just thinking to ask the smaller man in sweats if she’d be able to sit. He’d been on his cell phone for almost twenty minutes of the ride now. She remained standing hopelessly.

And He was just coming onto the bus, jostling through the bulging persons at the front and coming up against Her.

It was sometime in late August, 2011. She was French, he an Argentinian. Sweet strangers in an exciting subtle little world that didn’t quite feel American. And here José and Marie were cursing the late hours.

She put Arctic Monkeys’ “Cornerstone” on her heaphones to drown out all sounds. He could hear it through all the commotion. It wasn’t his favorite album, but he didn’t know anyone who would pass on that sultry sentimental song. He nudged closer without her noticing. He didn’t think much of her— just the tune. He appreciated her in the least, for having picked such a great band.

Then he smelled her hair. A loose fraying blonde bun wound at the nape of her neck where a rayon teal scarf was pedantic around her shoulders. It was Lavender, he was sure of it. His ears were finely tuned having heard “Conerstone,” his scent could not possibly dissapoint.

She was turning around, positioning herself so that her fringe faux-leather shoulder bag wouldn’t be up against the little bumbling girl on the seat to her right. An headphone fell out in this attempt, and as it swung out of her right ear it flicked José right below his brow.

Albeit accents, she pardoned herself like crazy and he smiling and assuring no offense. It was a little entertaining spectacle for few, rather unnoticed by all. That’s how Muni was— any oddity was a natural occurrence. And while he smiled gently, he glanced into her dark eyes. She was terribly confused and blushing.

Marie saw his eyes too. Still and green, like glass. He had a funny accent. Perhaps he was the only other one on that bus with one, too. In a swift second she was able to savor the smiles his mouth formed when gaping open with kind words, assuring her now that he shouldn’t have stood too close. He was saying now something about Arctic Monkeys— through his congenial voice there was nothing to apologize about anymore.

And now they laughed about the late hours, bartering mutual pleasantry in their brightening faces, of that fogged, cold Thursday.