The Package

Posted on January 8, 2013 by The Bay Area Brit

Look at me. I’m like a child on the morning of his birthday, waiting for the mailman to bring him a gift. No, it’s worse than that: I’m like a spoiled lapdog running to the window every ten seconds, waiting for his owner to come home. Every faint whiff of perfume that wafts through the slightly cracked window has him running around in circles near the front door.

Why? I’ve been waiting for a delivery from Fed Ex. It’s a laptop; I paid a lot of money for it and I want it, now. I’d like to take my mind off receiving my new “toy” by going for a walk or something but I’m imprisoned in my home waiting for the uniformed delivery person to arrive. “We’ll be there between 8am and 7 pm, guaranteed,” the Fed Ex representative told me when I called to ask for more specific delivery details.

“Well that’s great, but my schedule isn’t as flexible as yours. I have to leave my house to go to work at 4 p.m.” I chose my next few words carefully, aware that I may get red-flagged for a later delivery time for my insubordination. I continued, trying to convey that I was only trying to arrange a specific, smaller window of time to save the deliveryman, or woman, any inconvenience.

“Surely the most disappointing thing in the world for a driver is to ring the doorbell, it not be answered, and have to take the package back to the hub at the airport. Wouldn’t it make sense to give the customer a two-hour period that they could plan their other obligations around? Surely it would save man-hours and let’s not forget the cost of gas.” The phone representative was unimpressed with my logic. Realizing that this person was almost certainly, in spite of all my charmed attempts, not able to bump me up to a quicker delivery time I revealed my true personality.

“Well, sir, is there anything else I can help you with today?” she said.

“No thanks. Pretty much the only thing I needed from you was a rough idea of when I might see my package. You couldn’t help me with that. The chances that you can help me find an alternative, energy efficient, eco-friendly fuel source for my vehicle is not likely, now is it?” Yes it is true, I get the phone hung up on me a lot. Having said that being a smart-ass is easier on the phone, it lessens the likelihood of being punched in the nose.

With every truck that I hear trundle down my street, I rush to the window, only to be disappointed once again. I need a Fed EX truck, not a brown UPS truck, not a yellow DHL van, neither of these are any good. The truck that contains my new laptop has to have the words FED and EX in it.

When I was a child back in England, there were no package delivery companies competing with the postal service. If you didn’t get your package early in the morning delivered by the Royal Mail, you waited until the following morning. Yes, you might have to wait until tomorrow, but at least you can get on with today rather than being held hostage.

“WHERE IS MY PACKAGE?”

So I wait and I wait, and yes, even the big, green Alhambra water delivery truck sounds similar to a van that would deliver my package. The sliding door, on a Soccer Mom’s SUV, alerts me for a brief second. There’s a yellow school bus making the rounds. As it makes its way up the slight incline, it shifts into another gear. It sounds so similar to a delivery truck, my heart sinks when I see the animated joy of the small children on their way to their homes at the end of their school day. I look at myself in the mirror. I see the facial expression of a miserable and impatient human being.

Who are these delivery people that feel they have the right to steal a day of my life away from me? I suppose if I lived on a street slightly more traveled, then I wouldn’t pay such close attention to every over-sized vehicle meandering past my window; but I do. I’m so blinded by my excitement and impatience that it crosses my mind that perhaps my door buzzer is broken. Could I have possibly missed delivery of my package? I run down the three flights of stairs; there is no little sticky paper attached to my mailbox. How can I be sure though? It’s possible that some miscreant peeled off my notice of redelivery. Which I am sure would be in a timeframe somewhere between tomorrow and next month. How can I discover whether or not my buzzer is actually working? I knock on my neighbor’s door. “Hey, Jim.”

“It’s John.”

“Oh, sorry, can you come into my apartment and tell me if my doorbell is working? I’m expecting a package.”

I am caught between flights in the stairwell when I hear a truck slowing down; the high-pitched squeak of its overly used brakes grabs my attention. Should I run downstairs and wait? Or should I go back up to my apartment?

I run upstairs, usher my neighbor from my living room, and stare out my window. There it is: the big white delivery truck. The words FED EX painted in bright orange and purple. I watch the driver’s every move. He checks his little piece of paper to make sure he has the delivery address correct. “Come on buddy,” I say to myself. “I’m up here #301.”

He gets out of the driver’s side and walks around to the back. He climbs into the truck; he’s in there for ages. Has he lost my package? I hear the sliding door slam closed. Here he comes. Here it is. He is carrying my laptop. Oh my God. Oh my God. I stand by the door entry speaker in my hallway. I imagine him surveying the list of numbers next to the names on the row of door buzzers—any second now. The intercom buzzes. “I’ll be right down,” I yell into the speaker before even allowing him to announce his arrival.

I fly down the stairs and giddily accept the package and thank the driver ever so politely. My signature on his handheld computer is shaky. I don’t care I have my laptop. Sure I had to call in sick for work, but yes, the representative was right; my package arrived before 7 p.m. A whole ten minutes under the wire. I’m so grateful; I don’t care. I run up to my apartment and tear open the packaging. I have my new toy.

Now every truck, school bus and SUV can feel free to drive down my road without fear of being spied and scorned. That is until the next time I order something online.

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Do The Right Thing

Posted on February 3, 2012 by The Bay Area Brit

About a year ago, I was coming home on the BART late at night and witnessed what most people would characterize as unusual behavior: A young man was animatedly acting out two sides of a conversation. There was no one else in that particular car except me, and I immediately felt uncomfortable.

He occasionally looked over at me with a stare that said, “What’s your problem?”

Or it might have been: “Why are you eavesdropping on my conversation?”

Or…perhaps it was: “This is a conversation between A and B, so why don’t you ‘C’ your way out of it.” He, of course, was both “A” AND “B.”

Had he actually said that, I would of course have said, “I would be ‘D’-elighted.” and moved to the next car on the train.

I witnessed this man do this on seven or eight different nights in the space of three weeks. However, after the first time, I knew better than to sit in the same car. When I saw that same bright red Cincinnati Reds baseball cap sitting atop the young man chattering away to himself (sometimes quite angrily) I strategically sat in the next carriage over, although, I could watch him gesturing as if playing out a scene or confrontation that had just occurred.

If you’re thinking to yourself, “Mr. Bay Area Brit, have you never heard of a bluetooth headset? Maybe he was talking to another person on the phone.”

I can assure you this wasn’t the case.

Around the same period this was going on, a string of violent, armed robberies had been taking place in the East Bay. One store clerk: an Asian man in his sixties was in a hospital in serious condition after receiving a blow to his head from the butt of a handgun. There had been around six or seven robberies all committed by the same young man.

Police believed the robber would hit stores in different towns near BART stations, so he could leave the area quickly. Police described him as a male, African-American, mid-to late-twenties wearing a red Cincinnati Reds baseball cap. He also had a scar on the right side of his face. The consensus of the employees that had been working when he struck described him as having an “agitated manner.” He was also considered “armed and dangerous.”

If you can imagine a visualization of the word “agape” that was me, as I stared at my computer screen. Heart pounding out of my chest.

I had to know if it was the same man. Did my schizophrenic-conversationalist have a scar on the right side of his face? There was only one way I was going to find out.

Later that night, I waited on the platform nervously. Would he be on my BART train? Some nights he hadn’t been. He didn’t seem to have a set schedule, and I was rarely waiting at the exact same time on the platform. The train’s headlights were drawing near and I was getting antsy.

Dare I do this?

The train arrived and slowed to a stop, and there it was: the Cincinnati Reds hat. The doors opened and I got on. I swear my heart was about to explode. I looked over at him. “Excuse me, is this the San Francisco train?”

He glanced towards me, irritatedly. “Yeah.”

And there it was: a scar on the right side of his face. As I sat there (choosing a seat far away from him) I suddenly got scared. What the fucking hell am I doing? I’m like the COMPLETE opposite of courageous. This is nuts! But I had to know whether this was the man that had been terrorizing innocent people.

I knew, with a gut feeling that I cannot explain, that THIS was him. Maybe he had committed another robbery this very night. Maybe by not contacting the police this man had hurt, or maybe KILLED someone tonight.

Oh my God. Why had I waited? I had read the article almost a week earlier and this was him. Could it be possible, because of my hesitancy, a family would be grieving the loss of a loved one? Because of ME!

Oh FUCK!

I rushed home and wrote down the police contact number at the end of the article. The next morning I awoke with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach and reached for the phone.

“Yes, I’m calling because I think I have seen a suspect in a series of armed robberies.” I was nervous. I might have to be called to identify this man, maybe be a witness of some sort. What was I doing? I didn’t want to get involved with this. But I had to. I had already waited longer than I should. I was put on hold while they located the detective on the case. I was patched through. I explained my story to the detective.

“Got him.” the detective said.

“Oh, you did?”

“Yeah, three nights ago.”

“Oh, my God. Oh wow! Thank God for that. So it’s definitely the right guy then?” It wasn’t my guy on the train after all.

“Yep, definitely him. So if you see your guy on the train again, you can sit next to him without worrying.”

At the time, the detective’s comment didn’t register. I was just so relieved that they had got the guy and that my inaction hadn’t led to a tragedy. I thanked the detective and got off the phone.

“you can sit next to him?” What’s that about?

And then I realized what he was saying. The detective misunderstood my relief. He thought that I had been scared for my own safety.

I wanted to call him back and explain myself. “No, you don’t understand. I genuinely BELIEVED this was the guy and I had DELIBERATELY put myself in harm’s way to discover whether this was the right guy.”

I of course didn’t call the detective back.

Under the sense of relief and the feeling that I had done the “right thing.” It bothered me that I had been thought of as a coward because I was so relieved. But then I noticed that the sun was shining and it was a beautiful Bay Area morning.

You know what… if I see that Cincinnati Reds baseball cap tonight on the BART, maybe I WILL sit next to him.

Pfffft, yeah, right.

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The Gospel According To BART ….part II

Posted on July 25, 2011 by The Bay Area Brit

BART continues to be a source of amusement for the pic-and-caption team at The Bay Area Brit. I hope that you feel the same way.

The BART station agent’s financial woes are aired for everyone to see. However, if BART paid him more money maybe he would stay in his little booth the whole shift like he’s supposed to.

I keep seeing these ads on the BART platforms everywhere. I know when I’m scraping together the $2.75 to take BART in the morning, I often think to myself: “I should just donate my luxury yacht to some page 3 pin-up dressed like Donald Duck.” Really?

Speaking of ads: Why did the people that paid for the Judgment Day Warning posters pay to have their ads run through the end of July? Silly rapture-wanters.

This young man takes a heroin nap during the evening commute to San Francisco. He will wake up three hours later in Richmond and will have somehow lost his wallet, his ID, his sunglasses, and his Nikes.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen this happen, people.

A Female commuter regrets her decision to partake in “Take A Convict To Work Day” when he tells her that he’s never really known true love before…until now.

You know I just couldn’t resist

If you missed the first one, click below, and don’t be shy with a comment if you liked it, hated it, or are in one of the pictures and want your silly face blurred.

http://thebayareabrit.com/2011/03/07/the-gospel-according-to-bart/

Filed under: Uncategorized | Tagged: Bay Area Brit, Funny blog about BART, Funny British blog, Matty Stone, The Bay Area Brit, The Gospel According To BART | 4 Comments »

The Gay Area Brit

Posted on June 26, 2011 by The Bay Area Brit

A few years ago, I was on the N Judah returning home after a Saturday night of drunken debauchery out in the avenues. It was a bright, Sunday June morning, not unlike any other beautiful San Francisco day. I was trying to remember the name of the woman I had woken up next to…Svetlana? No…maybe it was Caterina…something Russian. I think. I remembered that much at least.

As the train approached the tunnel to head downtown, I noticed a large, colorful crowd of people waiting to get on at Church and Duboce. At the time, the only people on the N Judah was your hungover Bay Area Brit (sporting a silly grin), the driver, and an old Asian woman.

As we drew closer, I could see that there had to be 200 people eagerly waiting. Although they were 100 yards away, I could sense their excitement.

: We’re gonna need a bigger train!

The N Judah pulled in to the stop and suddenly the Asian lady and I were inundated with 100 or so gay revelers. Of course! Well that would explain why it was such a beautiful day: Gay Pride was happening this weekend…. and not only that, it was happening on our train.

I love Gay Pride. It’s a great time to celebrate the many diversities of life and love.

After about 2 minutes of riding, a chant came from the back of the train: “WE’RE HERE, WE’RE QUEER, GET USED TO IT!” A hundred grown adults chanting in unison.

These gay brothers and sisters seemed angry, and were doing that fist-pumping and pointing thing. I’ve been to soccer matches in England where hooligans were less intimidating. I looked over at the Asian woman and thought, are they chanting at us? What did we do wrong? And if they’re not aiming it at us, then who are they chanting at?

I thought of Lisa Simpson’s smiling response while watching the Gay Pride parade in Springfield:

“YOU DO THIS EVERY YEAR, WE ARE USED TO IT!”

Was it that obvious that I was straight and not “one of them?” I thought about chanting along with them and encouraging the old Asian woman to join in. What I really wanted to offer was an alternative chant:

“I’M STRAIGHT. I WAS OUT LATE. STOP YELLING AT ME.” Quickly followed by: ”I HAVE A REALLY BAD HANGOVER….BUT I SUPPORT YOUR RIGHT TO CELEBRATE!”

I got off of the train at Powell and felt kind of strange. Because I was not wearing the colors of the proud, did they think that meant that I was against them? Maybe the driver was their target?

Either way, that moment stuck in my head because for the first time in a while, I felt like I was the conservative guy that wasn’t cool–an outsider. I thought about it and realized that many of these people moved to San Francisco so that they could safely express themselves without fear of being targeted, and so for a brief minute I didn’t mind appearing to be the straight, uptight outsider that wasn’t part of the cool gang.

Happy Gay Pride Weekend To All My Brothers and Sisters!

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