Red Wheelbarrow 2008 text FINAL REVISED.indd - De Anza College

Beat Fremont | Tamika Hayes
On a morning like any other, this is you---approaching the
corner of 40th Street and MLK Avenue; passing the chain link fence
draped with abandoned clothes; quickening your step near the taxi
stand, where a cat lay decomposing for a week last spring; entering
the cave-like space created by the monstrous cement overpass; secretly
admiring the graffiti on the walls; swaying on your patent leather
heels to dodge the cyclist barreling toward you; sharply turning
at the corner where a young dreadlocked man hawks essential oils
and incense; nodding and smiling at the newspaper vendor and two
Jehovah’s Witnesses; blinking under the merciless fluorescent lights
that flood the BART station, jostling for space at the orange plastic
fare gates with other harried commuters, and finally booking it up
the stairs to await your San Francisco/Daly City train.
Short of breath, you walk to your usual spot at the platform’s
midpoint while your eyes scan the digital screens above you. SF/Daly
City train in four minutes; Fremont train in three. It is essential that
you position yourself well so that you can maximize the likelihood
of getting a seat on the rush-hour train. Even if there are multiple
seats among which you can choose, there will still be important
split-second decisions to make about your potential seatmates (a
businessman encroaching on your personal space with his open
newspaper beats a hooded high-schooler with a blaring iPod, and
both are far preferable to any woman with strong perfume). There is
also the matter of the seats themselves---better to sit in a frayed and
comfortless bucket than on a good cushion with mysterious stains.
Two minutes to go. You toe up to the bright yellow safety
zone, a good two feet away from the platform’s edge. You plant your
feet a little wider than shoulder width apart. It’s an unladylike stance,
but you’re determined to own the space. The Fremonters will pour off
their approaching train at any moment now, eager to transfer to the
SF/Daly City train. Inevitably one of them will break the unspoken
rules by sidling up to your left or right, ignoring the line of peeved
people stretching behind you, edging in front with nonchalance to
take the last open seat---a seat that rightfully belongs to you.
The Fremont train arrives on the opposite side of your
platform. The sound of its pneumatic doors feels like a sigh as its
human burden is discharged onto the landing. The crowd sorts itself
swiftly and almost silently along the length of the platform, moving
with certainty and purpose. A river of bodies surges at your back.
The SF/Daly City train is just now pulling into view a hundred
feet down the track. A few travelers are grimly determined to snag
a coveted seat. You can feel their nervous, hopeful energy; it only
22 | Red Wheelbarrow