“What’s that?” I asked, not sure if I heard her correctly. It was loud at the bar even though it was barely packed.

“Did you say you go to church?” she asked again.

I wavered in my response suddenly worrying that my non-drinking habits was giving off the wrong vibe. I stuttered, “No….?”

Seeing her response, I realized that I was making a mistake, but somehow she pursued it, “Do you ever?”

More than a year ago, I was talking about how to relate with people better—how to avoid entering awkward conversations about anything. What is the secret to relating to people? I wanted to know. How can I convince people of anything? Or how do I get them to like me Chris got along with people from all different classes, of all faiths, of all ethnicities…he was very close to conservative Christians and very close to the guys who attend strip clubs regularly. What do I need to do?

And suddenly in this moment at a bar in the Tenderloin…talking with someone that I actually wanted to connect with because I thought she was interesting….I was suddenly halted by words. Truth for some like me comes easy. But to put the truth in the right way without discomfort is difficult. Right at that moment, I couldn’t think of what to say—although knowing full well that Chris had taught me a canned response. But as my lips parted, the lesson slipped away.

I retreated to my easy awkward truth, “No…”

And the conversation halted and I knew the conversation was dead. She turned to Chris and asked the same question. Hearing his response, I knew what I was supposed to say.

I spent the rest of the evening trying to learn how to be glib. I think it’s rather hard.

Sometimes, I think photos speak better than words.

Minus the white circles on my shirt. And the drawn mustache.

Only a few moments later, did we have this photo.

At 6:00 pm, I charged across Alma Street. A train was leaving, but I wasn’t worried. Maybe the 5:56 pm train was late. But minutes passed. That was not the 5:56 pm train and I stood with all the other unhappy passengers. I walked down the stairs—or at least took the cement railing balancing my backpack of laundry and a laptop.

Wireless signal received. I checked the caltrain twitter. Not again. Someone down in San Mateo about an hour ago. My Mondays got worse.

At 6:30 pm, I finally boarded the baby bullet train and promptly fell asleep. I didn’t awake until we were halfway up to the city and suddenly I was overburdened with anxiety. Was a bus driver going to yell at me again? Was I wearing enough clothes? Should I even cook today?

It was 7 pm when I got to the bus stop outside the 22nd street station. It was 30 minutes later that got onto the bus, having built up a tolerance to the freezing weather in my t-shirt and skirt. So much for the high 70s weather predicted for San Francisco that day.

Fortunately, as I gave the $1.50 pass to the driver, she looked at me confusedly. I have no idea… she started and handed me a transfer. I mumbled, I have 50 cents… but then stopped completely when she just kept saying yeah I don’t know.

I stumbled to a seat and collapsed, relived that I wasn’t yelled at saving 50 cents.

About 10 minutes later as we were winding down the backside of Potrero Hill, we heard what sounded like small bullets on the window. Rocks or BB gun. I looked at the bus apathetically, wishing I was back at my place. I wanted to whine once again about the commute. But then I saw the damage as a bus driver off duty was screaming at someone in the darkness. She blocked traffic as she told another bus driver to avoid that street. They be throwing stuff, she yelled. Take another street.

At 24th and Potrero, we pulled out and was told it was the last stop. I sighed. It was near the pizzeria of the weekend’s Mission gang shooting. I have always been admittingly naive about living the Mission…walking down Bartlett at 11 pm with bags. Even now armed with pepper spray, I was wary. I passed by a small shrine of flowers and crosses. There were women, girls…lighting candles as a few people whispered about the tragedy that had fallen less than 48 hours before. Two blocks away up on 24th, a local news station van was parked with its satellite arm reaching high in the sky.

I think I don’t want to live in the ‘burbs I thought again for nearly the 30th times this month. I trudged home in the darkness, besieged by the many taquieras, but stumbling into my apartment at 8 pm eating only sunny side up eggs and 6 tomatoes and 20 candies.

I also sprayed my waters gently. The branch that I cut off last week was gone, but it was still living. Exhausted, I collapsed in my chair. Finally figured out Skype and watched Glee…suddenly wishing that I could be a teacher too.

Someone is closer to thirty! Not me!!!!! :D

Chris is the best at:

How would it be like to walk through life in a tunnel? To believe that this was the only way to go? That you may have a single flashlight, charged by a battery. When the battery dies, you keep trudging on, because that happens. Batteries die and you’re so accustomed to groping your way until someone hands you a battery. Sometimes you start crawling on the ground on all fours. You groan and wince as you scratch your bare knees on the wet cavern floor. And you keep going and going, because it’s all you have known.

But what if the tunnel wasn’t the only way to get through? What if there were stairs outside that led up. Oh yes, it’s a hike, but there’s a wonderful slide on the other side. The journey isn’t as dark as the tunnel and there are happy people there.

What if in this tunnel, you’re surrounded by unhappy people. You meet happy people on the other side, but you never ask how they got there. They seemed unharmed, perhaps even lucky. You’re jealous, but you know that you are not worthy. Or so you think.

You think you’re unlucky. That you’re too slow. That you can’t be them. But it’s only because you believe that the tunnel is your destiny. Because it’s all that you know.

When I was in the 7th grade, I was unhappy with the way my life was proceeding. It was only the previous year that I endured rampant teasing. I was the secret outcast that the teachers never knew as I quietly got A’s in my classes but failed miserably during lunch. As girls would gawk at me and whisper snide comments to their friends.

On the first day of school, everyone assembled for class. I saw a new girl. She was Asian. Normally in the nearly Caucasian community, I would dart over to her. I could pretend to be popular immediately. But I saw that she made instant friends. Why was she smiling? How did she find comrades so quickly? I shuffled to a seat in the auditorium and decided right then that I would do the same thing. The same goal.

To be charismatic and comfortable in social situations. To be confident. To walk into a room and not fear that I would enter an awkward conversation.

Plastic surgery? Never. But those c-words are what I am seeking.

It was the second time that a bus driver was yelling at me for trying to use a pass from the old booklet. I calmly (or perhaps stupidly) stood near the door, groping through my wallet for some magical change that would appease the driver’s anger of me not having 50 cents.

I had purchased the booklet in early July for $15—in an attempt to hedge my bets against the increased fare from $1.50 to $2. And for two months afterwards, I dutifully used my booklet thinking that I wouldn’t have to pay extra (like the forever stamps). The bus drivers never complained.

In fact, I didn’t think they cared.

For the last few years I lived in city (even though most of those years were when I had the San Francisco Fast Pass), I experienced the great apathy all the bus drivers seem to have. People would stumble into the bus in the back door—perhaps they had the pass or a transfer. But I could tell when someone was trying to hitch a free ride. Or most often especially in the projects (in fact, the 48 route that I was riding today), the bus driver may see fellow African American (I am not trying to stereotype here) and wave him on. Or more so, someone would request a free ride and the driver would him on. Or other times, the driver wouldn’t even look at people getting on the bus, having stuck the transfers right where money went in.

And moreover, what about the transfers that get passed around right in front of the driver? Or the fact that the transfers actually last more than the allotted time of 90 minutes. Even to the case when Chris asked how long the transfer lasted and the bus driver asked him how long he needed for…Chris showed me his all-day transfer later. It was befuddling.

And today, when bus driver started yelling at me. Almost accusing me of being guilty and performing underhanded tricks. I had reached for the pass to take it back…and to put in two whole one dollar bills. He was telling me to back off, to stop reaching for the transfer. In some way, I felt a bit of satisfaction that the bus drivers were paying attention and trying to get people to pay the fare. Finally.