Boy, I’m so lucky. I’m always learning. You know how they say that’s a good thing? Keeps your mind snappin’ and blows away those old mental cobwebs, that’s what they say.
I learned this yesterday: BART doors are not like elevator doors. Betcha didn’t know THAT, didja? And if you did, don’t tell me.
Lala’s superpower is to make the train leave just as she reaches the platform. Me, on the other hand, I’ve usually arrived just as the train is pulling in. (But I have no parking karma, so it evens out.) Yesterday, however, I heard the train pulling in as I was going up the escalator. I ran up, up, up, and got to the doors just as they were closing. They have rubbers bumpers on them, just like elevator doors. So I did what I do with elevators: I stuck my hand in between the doors.
Let me say it again: BART doors are not like elevator doors. I was standing there, with my hand caught tightly (and rather painfully) in the door, people inside the car gaping with horror at my little fingers grasping at air. I think we all had a mental image of the train starting to roll. Two people leapt up and tried to pry the doors open. I learned later that the conductor can tell if a door is open and will look out her window and pop the doors, which she did. I fell into the car, trying not to clutch my poor mangled hand (it wasn’t, but it felt like it was), and had to face approximately nine thousand concerned, shocked faces. "Oh, it didn’t hurt! Isn’t that weird? It didn’t shut hard. [Yes, it did.] It was just surprising. No, I’m fine! Yes, I’m glad I didn’t die. Yes, I’m sorry your child is crying. Yes, it IS a tragedy narrowly averted, thanks for reminding me. ‘Preciate that."
I meandered as casually as possible to the back of the car, having these conversations with, like, EVERYONE, and then at the next stop, I (carefully) changed cars. I needed the pitying stares to stop. (My hand is fine, by the way. My pride will take about a week to catch up with the hand.)
I think I blushed all the way to Powell Street. There I met Brian-Mark, where we caught up with each other to the tune of a $110 lunch (!) and a bottle of wine each. Each, mind. O joy merlot divine. In Venice, I met him on a boat, and in the one minute of conversation we had, I got his room number at the Hotel Rialto. I left him a note later, and the next day I picked him up in the lobby. We wandered the city together for the next two days. Yesterday, I picked him again in a hotel lobby, and we wandered another city, marveling at our luck, and admiring each other, and the way we managed to meet each other in the most romantic city in the world, the lesbian and the queer boy, walking the narrow streets above the canals, arm in arm. Yesterday was a lovely, lovely afternoon. And I was hungover by 6pm.
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