the 21 and Samoan drunks.

On my way to work I took the slow-lurch like 21 Hayes bus at around 7:18. I was the first one on. I love it when that happens. I love it so much that almost instinctively I shoot dastardly mean spirited glares that say get off my bus as it stops on virtually every silly little block. Today the driver seems short on patience because we are racing down Hayes like he's got a gun to his head. So its just the usual shit show, no one paying attention, listening to Ipods or doing sudoku or reading Yoga magazine, you know San Francisco people on the bus crap. After we pass city hall this big hulking Samoan guy comes stumbling onto the bus with a luggage cart filled with milk crates and a small boom box on top. He's had a few pitchers of whiskey it seems. He meanders through a thinning crowd and makes his way to the back of the bus where I'm perched on the second to last row. He's easily 6'6, a portly 300 lbs. and smells like a bar rag. The guy sits right next to me, the seat to my left was just recently vacated by some snooty-old battle axe who shakes her head as he hits the undercarriage with his smelly forrest green sweatpants.  

"Scuse me."

"Not a problem," I say with a grin.

This big guy grabs his cart from his right and begins to fiddle with his boom box. He turns the power button on finally and 'Man in the Mirror' by Michael Jackson begins blasting, I mean, loud all throughout the bus. I'm laughing uncontrollably as some suit pesters him to turn it off. He stands up lunging toward the cart and as he does the bus hits the breaks.  His inertia clearly misaligned, the bus sends him sailing, this huge hulking frame directly onto the lap of some helpless chinese woman as he yelps a drunken cry while falling. He hits her lap and I look over my shoulder and its like i'm looking at some post apocalyptic cage fighting beast with the body of a Samoan man and the wisdom of an old chinese concubine, except for the writhing pain on her face and his thrashing around like he's drowning. Along with a mutually entertained patron we grab the behemoth by his hands and set him down in my seat. 

Crisis averted? No fucking way. The radio's off, the drunk is seated and aside from a few shriveled old bones now turned to dust it seems the old lady's only going to suffer mental scarring. I'm sure the guy was a little disoriented but it didn't stop him from opening a fresh bottle of Jim Beam and taking a few gulps. I look at him while he's sipping, as if inciting him to answer a question. 

"I make my money the old fashioned way," he says surly and contemptuous, cross-eyeing me.

"Oh what way was that," I say back, realizing I've instigated an epic tirade.

"I rob banks for 'em," as his volume goes from tolerable to shrill between predicates. 

"Oh fuck, now I've done it," I say.

"1974, Bank of the West. I got my money the old fashioned way."

"Oh my."

"1978, Seattle, Washington.  First National Bank. I excaped{sic} to Vancouver, cause I earn my money the old fashioned way."

He goes on recalling all these banks he robbed, always narrowly avoiding the law somehow.  We go another block and the bus comes to a stop. The driver walks through the thick crowd and asks the guy to shut the fuck up.

"But I earned my money the old fashioned way...I robbed banks for it!"

Again the driver says to quiet down, but he just keeps on screaming. The driver exits out the back door and tells a cop across the street. Almost everyone, aside from myself and few old people get off the bus. The entertainment value here is off the charts in my book and i'm still making great time to work. 

A short square faced police officer steps onto the bus with an air of confidence and authority despite his smallish frame. 

"Whats going on here," the officer says examining the scene as another taller, sturdier officer come on board.

"Huh?"

"We need you off the bus fella, you're disturbing the driver and the other patrons."

"I made my money the old fashioned way, I robbed banks for it" he says standing up.

"What was that," the officer says his tone shifting dramatically. It was at this time, just after the Samoan stood, that I noticed just how small this cop was.  He must've been about 5'9 and 160 pounds soaking wet. 

"I made my money the old fashioned way, I said! I robbed-"

"Alright fuckstick," and this dwarf of a cop grabs this guy, his herculean frame now floundering as his wrist replaces where his face was just the second before. A visceral grunt comes spewing from the cart pusher and he's flaying to and fro on the ground between seats. The larger cop helps pin him down and cuff him. The two officers then raise him to his feet as odd, incoherent drunk speak drivels out his mouth.  They begin to push him out the front door till I speak up.

"Wait! What about his cart?"

"What about it," the taller officer says.

"Its probably all he has,"  as I say this they continue pushing him out on to market street and then I remember that they're SFPD and probably have zero tolerance for dealing with drunk vagrants at 7:45 in the morning. 

I'm trying to be a good samaritan to a Samoan today so I grab his smelly cart. I approach the officers to take it with them but they're not interested and I can tell if I don't let it go they're going to put me in the paddy wagon with my new friend.  So I ask them if he's going to county lockup or the tank and they drive away.  I'm holding the Samoan's smelly cart and look at the clock and realize I have to get to work.  So I let go of the cart and leave it at the bus stop.  On my way home, I passed by the bus stop and the cart was gone so I went home and had a drink in honor of my two headed Samoan-Chinese vegetable shopping drunk bank robbing beast. 

Fuck, what a city.