A Real Test of Strength

A guy walks into Popeyes on his lunch break at noon and orders a bucket o' chicken.  

Translation: "Oh hi, Boss.  Don't worry about me today.  Callin' it a day at noon!" 

I work in Downtown Oakland close to City Center.  I often walk through the City Center Square where, reliably, there is an ant-farm of people scattered about during the lunch hour.  In City Center there are ten to twenty restaurants/lunch delis.  They're all pretty generic spots, mostly chains.  There's Quiznos, Starbucks, Baja Fresh, some family owned delis, and then... there's Popeyes.  

In passing through the Square on my way to the gym for a quick swim or to grab a quick bite, I always notice that there's always a good amount of people inside each restaurant.  The line at most places is about 4 to 5 at most.  

But Popeyes.  Man, it's a whole different beast.  The line bursts from the doors and squiggles out along the side of the restaurant (can I really call it a restaurant?!).  This always amazes me.  People from all walks of life, poring out the door in their suits, waiting for that huge bucket o' greasy chicken to set their day straight.    

I don't know how they do this.  I'm not judging.  I mean, I know how they can eat it - the smell is always enticing.   I honestly just don't know how they do it.  How do these people go back to work for the next 4-5 hours after taking a face-first plunge into the bucket o' chick?  How do they do they do it? 

For me, I'd probably be more productive if I knocked down a twelve-pack of brew than if I took down 12 greasy wings.  I'd feel more hung-over and drunk from the chicken than the alcohol.  My stomach would experience a TKO via Chick.  My forehead would be sweating out deep-fried grease for the rest of the afternoon.  I'd pass out within twenty minutes.  

Staying awake, productive, and not in the bathroom for the rest of the afternoon after eating Popeyes should be the next triathlon I attempt. 

How do they do they do it?

It's one of the great mysteries of the world.

The Muni Vigilante

"Crunch... Chomp. Chomp... Crunch… Chomp.” 

Its 8:30 a.m. and I'm startled by the noise coming from behind me.  I'm sitting on the comfortable, yet unspeakably unhygienic BART Train seat (see link: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/06/us/06bcseats.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=bay%20area%20rapid%20transit&st=cse).  I'm on my way to work.  My train has just emerged from the tunnel and into the bright Oakland morning sun.  Leaving behind the summer fog of the city each morning is something I've begun to anticipate and crave as much as a warm shower first thing on a cold morning. 

By the time I transfer from the N line Muni train to the Bart, most of the other commuters have already evacuated Bart and scrambled into their Downtown San Francisco offices.  Most people who live in the city (SF) don't work in Oakland.  It wouldn't make any sense to live in the city and pay the high rent, just so you could commute to Oakland, where the cost of living is much lower.  So my Bart trip is always nice.  The train's usually empty and leaves me plenty of space to stretch out and dive into the paper or my book. 

As the train emerges on this morning, I settle into my coffee and first few pages of my book.  The sun is shining.  I had a great night's sleep.  The day is off to a perfect start.   

"Crunch... Chomp. Chomp..." 

Okay, you've got to be shitting me.  I can't ignore this now.  I turn around in my seat.  I turn around for the dual purpose of finding out what the species behind me is doing and to give a disapproving snarl of a glare.  I snap my head back, give a disapproving glare, and quickly scan the scene.  The guy’s about 40, thin, dressed casually, and either Latino or Indian (what? I couldn’t tell, it was a quick glance!)  When I see the tennis ball canister-looking thing of Onion-flavored Pringles in this guy’s hands, my disapproving glare becomes sharper, sadder.  It's 8:30 in the morning and homeboy's crunching on Pringles.  Not just eating Pringles, but crunching them to hell.  He might as well have been jumping up and down on the chips in Stilettos.  It was so loud and right in my ear.  On any other day, I probably would have just laughed to myself, slipped in my ipod, and rode out the train for another ten minutes before we hit my stop.  But because of what happened yesterday, I was on a mission.   

Yesterday, I was jam-packed on the N train, heading home - as always.  We are always stuffed like sardines on the commute home.  Everyone's pooped and everyone's face conveys a longing to head home peacefully to their family, beer, dinner - all of the above, whatever.  All of us commuters suffer together.  And we all want the same thing.  Quiet.  Silence.  We want to read our book, listen to our ipod, or just sit there and quietly stare off into space after a long day.  But you can always spot those who aren't a part of the team.  And on this day, I happened to be standing next to two from the opposition.   

These two girls were clearly young - just out of high school probably.  And they were recklessly blaring away.  They were practically shouting at each other.   

"Oh yea, ya know, I used to date Sergio, but he wouldn't introduce me to his parents.  So I said eff that! Ya know?  And then...  And then, he started dating my best friend, ya know?  And I was like, ya know, dat's it!  So we're done!  So yea... now I'm dating his best friend, David.  He's pretty cool and all.  He's hot and..."   

And on and on they went like this for a few minutes that felt like hours.  All my fellow commuters/regulars/teammates made death-glares in these girls' direction and then in the direction of their fellow teammates, all to convey their mutual understanding of, "geezus, what the fuck?"  But to no avail.  The girls were completely clueless and continued whaling.   

I had enough.  I ripped my ipod headphones out of my ears and leaned over toward the girls.   

"Do you mind keeping your conversation down?  We can all hear everything you guys are saying.  I can't even hear my ipod.  Do you mind?  We all just had a long day," I instinctively blurted out, without much thought.   

"Ohhh, sorrryy," replied the girls, with the look of genuine embarrassment.  They completely stopped their conversation for a full minute, then continued at a much muted tone.  I could feel my fellow commuters eyes on me.  I made a few rounds of eye contact with some of my teammates.  "We won!" I imagined all of their smiled eye contact conveying.  It was a small victory, but a huge one nonetheless.   I felt empowered.  I felt like a hero.  “The Muni Vigilante!”  

So this particular morning, I felt inspired.  I was determined.  I wasn't going to just stand by as the Pringle Perp won.  I wasn't going to let him sit there and crunch away on his Pringles in reckless disregard of the law and common courtesy.  I couldn't.   

After my initial death glare and surveyance of the scene, I was now turned back around, facing forward pondering yesterday's victory and plotting today's strategy.  What should I do?  What should I say?  Should I turn around and ask him if he's aware that its a $250 fine for eating on Bart, and that he better cut that shit out?  Should I turn around and say something passive aggressive and judgmental about his choice of nutrition, and then proceed to tell him that he better cut that shit out - for both health concerns and my own sanity?  As the chomp and crunch continues I imagine the perfect move.  I imagine myself popping up on my seat and springing into the air with a 180-degree turn - in Matrix-style slow motion – and, with agility and grace, drop-kicking the Pringles can with my left foot and then destroying his chomping jaw with my right. 

But as I'm considering the endless string of possibilities, I realize that the chomping and crunch has ceased.  He's done with the Pringles, I realize.  I've missed my opportunity to be a hero.  I take a take breath and sink a little deeper into my seat.  I look back at the book in my left hand that I've all but forgotten was there, “Born to Run,” by Christopher McDougall.  I’ve been hooked on this book.  I crack it and try to find where I left off, slowly erasing the Pringle Perp (PP) from my mind.   

The Bart putters down a ramp.  I haven’t even read a full paragraph before I feel something bang into the back of my foot from underneath the seat.  Reflexively, I yank my leg up in an instant.  But as I look down to see what just hit my foot, it’s already gone.  What the hell was that?  Did my nemesis just kick me?  No, it didn’t feel like a shoe.  I don’t know what that was…The Bart hiccups again and I quickly look down at my right shoe.  No fucking way! 

I didn’t need to look down quickly to spot what it was because what was kicking me was just chilling there.  It was resting up against my shoe, looking up at me like a puppy rolled over on it’s back begging for a belly rub.  It was my enemy’s empty can of Pringles can.  It had rolled under the seat to strike me, to assault and taunt me.  Before I can even begin to process this, I quickly lift my leg up and slam my heel into the Pringles can, kicking it right back where it came from.  Two seconds later, its back, resting on my heel again with an even brighter smile as it looks back up at me.   I’m so furious I can’t even think.  I lean down, grab the can and turn around to face the villain.    

So here I am.  Here’s my chance. Here’s my opportunity to school this guy, to act out one of the scenarios I had sketched up in my mind moments before.  Would it be the drop kick?!  I don’t know, but I knew it was my moment to continue my streak as the Muni Vigilante, the one who takes the public transportation law into his own hands for everyone’s benefit.  Full-time legal intern; part-time Muni Superhero. 

As I’m turned around staring at PP, with the Pringles in my right hand and a look of disgust on my face, I’m ready to capitalize.  But as I take in the breath that will surely be transferred into pure verbal domination, PP halts me with his own kryptonite:  He smirks and says, “Oh, sorry.  Yea, I’m all finished,” and grabs the can out of my hands like I’m his waiter.  I say nothing.  I turn around in my seat, devastated, confused, and completely deflated.  My gaze drops toward my lap.  I’m speechless.  What was that?  You’re all finished?  What?!  I know you’re all finished - the can was empty!  

The train pulls up to my stop before this all settles.  I step out of the train in a daze.  I walk out of the underground and into the busy streets of Downtown Oakland with my thoughts swirling.  The sun is shining, people in suits are shuffling, and the city pigeons are fluttering.  

I’m not sure when it started, maybe in law school, maybe when I started working in law, maybe living in the city – probably all three are responsible.  But riding public transit has made me aware of this impulse of correction – this feeling of wanting to correct other people’s behavior.  Like when someone’s doing something I disagree with, offends or angers me, I want to change their behavior.  I want that stranger to be wearing a helmet when he rides his bike.  (Does he know how unsafe it is not wearing one?!).  I want her to realize how obnoxious it is to carry on a conversation on her cellphone while on the train.  And I especially want him to know that it is (legally and morally) wrong to eat crunchy chips at 8:30 in the morning on the train. 

I could expend all of my energy -everyday for the rest of my life - being frustrated and angered by what strangers do around me.  But maybe this isn’t my responsibility.  Maybe my only responsibility is to myself – to be in control of how I respond, my reaction to each of these villains.  There’s always going to be someone to correct, to change, to “educate.”  But the struggle is endless and futile.  Just let go, man.  Turn it into something funny.  Easier said than done.  

Just. Let. Go… 

I look around the city searching for a way to distract my mind from my realization that I’m not cut out to be a Public Transit Superhero. Then a billboard catches my eye:  “The Green Lantern.”  Ryan Reynolds; looks stupid, I mutter to myself. 

I glance to the other side of the street.  There’s another billboard: “Captain America.”  It was like looking into the mirror of what I just realized I couldn’t be.  I felt relieved and optimistic.  The pressure was off me, but transferred outward and elsewhere. Maybe there’s a Bart Superhero out there somewhere… 

I couldn’t be a superhero.  I also couldn’t bring myself to see either of these movies.  

But a movie about Bart Superheroes?  That’s something I’d run to see.