A Ride on the Trolley

The greatest show on earth is not the Zoo, Midway or Gas lamp. The best show can be had for a buck or      two on the trolley. The cast of characters change with from morning to dark. My favorite time to ride is at high noon.
   Mainly out of work blacks or whites ride it with  nothing better to do. They have been provided with a compass pass, not doubt to get them off the street. Many carry bikes, skate boards, or babies in their arms.
   Few are clean shaven. One had whiskers down to his shoulder. Others show off their multicolored underwear, A few pimps jump aboard with their blond haired doll.  One regular couple brought their disabled terrier aboard. The terrier's back legs were strapped around two stroller wheels. It looked ungainly at best.
   Next stop is Washington Street. A large mechanized wheel chair came aboard wiping out a few riders who ran to the other side of the train. This man was heavily whiskered wearing tattered pants and battered shoes. He looked around with a scowl while another drank from a beer can.
   I enjoy watching the tourists. Four from Italy held their mouths to contain their laughter. Another crazy lady threw out barbs leading with "F" and "B" words. Her hair went in every which way. She looked for anyone to listen to her troubles.

 For me give me the Coaster train when fans jump aboard in Oceanside, Carlsbad and other stops along the Southern route. The Padre fans come aboard ready for action. Each carries a bag or cooler. Their soft voices turn into barkers at a circus. They mingle the whiskey with the brew. One gal, a year ago, took up her sweat shirt on a dare. All drinking stopped. Toilets are usually stopped up since many which a toilet break at the same time.About one year ago, several routers got off at the Del Mar Race track. A TSA worker gave each a ticket for carrying an open bottle outside the train.
   Earlier Sunday morning the Green Line Trolley stops every thirty minutes. Most of the patrons are asleep having crossed the border. Most are domestics. They are fast asleep until the train comes to Old Town Station. Instinctively, the wake up and bolt out the door. They go to one of eight buses that take them to their cleaning, or other job.
  Spanish is their sole language. One dollar of work turns to three when they return on the train. From their the Blue Line Trolley takes them back to the border where they spend their money. Tennis shoes, baseball hats with a black pony tail in back is their uniform. In the morning they are fast asleep, but on the way home they celebrate.

  After had taken the #88 bus out of Old Town. The bus circles about twenty hotels in the Mission Valley corridor. I wanted to find out about the early bird special at some of the hotels. Charlies, inside the Town and Country, only offered drinks at a discount. The Town is by far, the largest hotel in that circle. To its north is the Mission Valley Transit station. A wooden bridge climbs over the harnessed San Diego River into the hotel.
  Instead of taking the #88 bus to Old Town, I decided to take the Green line Trolley since it spills out at the Santa Fe Station. I climbed several steps for my bench to wait for it. The toothless gentleman was licking each piece of hot dog droppings. Across the rails, an old white beard was  picking pieces from his carton. One stop was the one for the Moreno Valley. I heard what sounded like an elephant board.
  A five foot piece of black luggage came aboard. A young lady pushed it  while she held onto to two plastics bags of cans. No double she would be going to recycling station to turn her plastic for bread.   She stood in the aisle out of breath and coughed every few minutes. She availed herself to an empty seat and continued to cough. She seemed strong with a stiff upper lift. She coughed again.
  Many who live under the stars cough now. It is a matter of time for meat wagons to pick up their remains. I got off at the Santa Fe Station. When I turned around there she was, standing with her house of belongings. She sat on a bench and waited.
  A feeling of joy came over me. I had a roof over my head and my throat didn't tickle. I did not need to sleep under the stars,  beg for my food or worry about the bitter cold or rain I also wondered about our new health care and how it helped the homeless.
 
  Until the day I die, the thought of that five foot piece of luggage will haunt me. I wondered how long she had to live before the meat wagon would pick her up. She would never have the joy of marriage or see her grandchildren. Instead, her remains would be thrown in a heap with others in an unmarked grave.