He was standing by the curb when I spotted him, looking both ways for cars before dashing to the other side of Haight Street into a crowd of shoppers. After months of limited human contact, seeing a familiar face felt odd yet pleasantly serendipitous.
But, just like that, he was gone before I could place him. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, his long, black hair in a half ponytail — a striking appearance begging to be remembered. Did we match on Hinge? Did we used to work in the same building? Did we frequent the same laundromat?
I mulled over these questions as I elbowed my way through the bustling streets of the Haight-Ashbury. After months of desertion, people and traffic have now returned to the neighborhood, bringing some semblance of happy normalcy. That’s when I heard the 7 bus rumble by, and suddenly, I remembered. This man I just saw used to ride the bus at the same time I did every morning, back when that was something I did.
In that moment I went back in time: I saw myself, face uncovered and no hand sanitizer in sight, as one of a handful of regular commuters, along with the elusive man. We were waiting for the 7:27 a.m. bus.
Sign up for The Bold Italic newsletter to get the best of the Bay Area in your inbox every week.
Coming back to reality, I smiled behind my mask at remembering he and I were part of the same posse of riders who, by some silent agreement, gathered there — same time, same place, every weekday morning. What a lifetime ago, it seemed.
The memories of pre-Covid days have drifted further and further away, so I was pleasantly surprised to recall that a person so deeply embedded in the subconscious still exists in flesh and blood. Our paths had mysteriously come together again since after diverging seven months ago, unearthing a memory that once seemed mundane but now felt cherished.
It got me thinking about how much I miss that commute, that morning routine. The way we all stood around the bus stop in silence, still drowsy and maybe even hungover. The way the bus appeared on the foggy horizon, usually behind schedule, prompting us to stop dillydallying and edge closer to the curb to prepare to board. I even miss the way the bus would be so full, so close to capacity, that the air was thick with a sense of unspoken competition to get a seat.
If I were unlucky, I would spend the next 20 minutes hugging a vertical pole, painfully uncomfortable physically and psychologically. Farther down the route, the bus would become even more crowded, so much so that it was ready to burst at the seams. Of course, there was nothing I could do about it except let go (my mind, to be sure, not the pole) and simply embrace the situation and distract myself. So began my naughty habit of spying: I found joy in observing the quotidian and curious lives of others. In fact, I would quite forget that there was someone literally breathing down my neck.
Besides the cohort that gathered at my stop, there were other faces I would see regularly. On Fillmore, two lovebirds squeezed just inside the folding door, which barely closed shut behind them, holding onto one another as the bus accelerated too quickly. A couple of seats away, a lady sat holding a thermos between her legs, playing Candy Crush with incredible agility. In the rear end was the #HotDudeReading guy, oblivious to the goings-on and looking cute reading a paperback. For all these buzzing activities in close quarters, folks kept silent in honor of the weekday morning.
When I think about these moments, it makes me sad that there’s only an infinitesimal chance that all the same people will ever come together again — same time, same place. As for me, I no longer have to be squished into a Muni every morning since I don’t have an office to get to. Back then, the drudgery of public transit seemed like just that: drudgery. But now, my bedroom feels like a cul-de-sac, and I’d much rather dwell on my old commute that was so full of bustling life and people.
I guess what I feel for my fellow bus riders is not unlike what I would feel toward an ex: I miss the good times and I’m eager to forget the annoyances. If only I didn’t have to be so alone.
Although I never came to know their names, nor did we ever exchange any words (except maybe “excuse me” as I stepped over their feet), I strangely came to know more about them than I intended. I’ve unwittingly observed and collected their habits and idiosyncrasies like relics, the dust on which I’m only now brushing off. In remembering them, I know now that I care for them in a way that was previously unknown to me: As much I hated to be squished into a crowded bus, they made the trip something more than a nuisance.
So, my fellow commuters, wherever you are in the world now, whether still in San Francisco or far away, I hope you are still holding tightly onto your loved one and crushing at Candy Crush, looking cute while reading, and most of all, that your hair is still long.
