Organic Mutant

For lunch today I decide to go meet my pal - and former colleague - Robert. Being that he works downtown and I’m at Civic Center, I decided we’d eat Thai near Union Sqaure. It’s too far for me to walk in reasonable time so I decided to hop the F train, a streetcar that runs down Market Street from Castro to the Embarcadero.

The F line is slow; that’s a fact. But it was a beautiful day and I wasn’t enticed by the thought of the subway. So…

As I approached the Muni stop, I saw this kinda creepy-lookin’ person, with long hair covering his (or her? I couldn’t tell at that point) face, and a cart overflowing with stuff, including a suitcase. We boarded, and I took a seat near the back of the car, just a couple rows behind the odd individual. A few stops up, as people de-trained and boarded, I realized that the train’s rear doors were staying open too long, blocked by the cart of the very same chap (I’d determined). But where was he?

He was standing, engaged in an odd, silent, and increasingly intense mutual grasp with a short and stocky Latino guy sitting just two rows in front of me. But what were they doing? I couldn’t figure it out. So I stared and stared. The doors were still stuck open, the car wasn’t moving, the creepy guy wasn’t leaving and he wasn’t bringing the short guy with him.

“These guys are fighting! Call the cops!” I announced and commanded the moment I figured out what was going on. I was sitting in my chair, at a loss for what was behind the squabble. This, by the way, was happening amid dozens of fellow riders: the train was full. Then a couple of small items, including a watch and a swiss army knife, fell to the ground. The tall guy was apparently trying to take back some items that the short guy had swiped (presumably from his cart). The short guy would not relent. A passenger behind me called the cops. A minute later, two officers arrived, just as the tall guy had triumphed. Escorted by the police, the two men moved to exit the train. As they then disembarked, the tall guy landed a full roundhouse punch square in the theif’s gut.

Once off the train, surrounded by police, the vicitm began to signal for a pen and paper: he was mute, no ability to speak. Which, combined with the theif’s desire to not draw attention his way, explained why their struggle had remained totally and completely silent.

The theif slinked off while the cops thought about their next donuts. According to a pair of riders behind me, he strolled accross the street and was trying to sell the watch he’d just stolen. Eventually the train doors closed, and then we were moving again.

Needless to say, I was late for lunch.