Hammered Strangers on a Train

Cara and I went to a Giants game yesterday afternoon. Since you can’t find parking during weekdays for less than $30, we decided to take the train. Our tickets mentioned nothing about loud drunks and a trans chanteuse, but sometimes you just get lucky.

It was standing room only while two young couples were doing jell-o shots, downing mini-bottles of whiskey, and chasing it all with a 12-pack of Modelo Especial…all before noon. The obnoxiously loud, improvised performance revealed they’d gotten on the train forty minutes earlier. As late comers we had to listen intensely to divine the back story to this brilliant gem of spontaneity.

The ensemble hailed from a rural area of California’s central coast. This explained the alcoholic preparation. If they were to navigate the big city, they’d need proper lubrication. Prior to us boarding, they had befriended an older fellow who was all too willing to accept their invitation to imbibe. The senior chap acted as our listening board while the mustachioed host divulged his life story loud enough for all nine cars to hear.

His lady friend would shrilly chime in to fill in the details of his autobiography and offer up more jello-o shots to the audience at large. I thought, “Breaking the fourth wall. Bold move.”

Without warning, a penetrating voice from the entrance to the car interrupted: “I need to use the bathroom! Does anybody know where the bathroom is? I need to go now! Get out of my way! I need some respect!” A middle-aged transvestite with a cheap blonde wig and a healthy three-day growth appeared from the caboose. She hurried through the audience in search of the water closet. “I’m channeling Aretha. I need some RESPECT!”

She returned several minutes later in full voice. “What you want, baby I got it!” It was a brilliant surprise, and none too soon, as the script of the main story seemed to have stalled. “Aretha, the Musical” ended its run at Millbrae station where she could take BART and find new groups of travelers to entertain.

The train finally pulled into our station and the troupe gathered up their empties and wobbled onto the platform. As we moved past, I was ready to request an autograph, but thought better of it as a drunken scrawl might not be sufficiently legible. The memory would have to do.

The Safeway across from the train was brimming with fans so we stopped by Walgreens and paid $4 for what turned out to be two small bags of stale peanuts. Lesson learned: Never purchase your ballgame snacks where you buy your ipecac syrup. It could turn out to be a never-ending cycle.

We entered the park and found our way to the View Level. We may have been far away from the action, but we were right behind home plate. We argued with the ump from several stories up and he refused to acknowledge us, but we persisted. I make sure to loudly encourage our boys in orange and black. I find it cathartic, like primal therapy. The ballpark is one of the few places where one can scream out loud and no one turns to look or calls the authorities. My thoughts went to our vocal entertainers on the train. I let out a sigh of relief noticing they were nowhere in sight.

Since it was our first game of the season, we thought we’d splurge for lunch. We decided on beef nachos (they were out of chicken). I was silly to assume it would be shredded beef, like carne asada. What we got was thin tortilla chips, soaked in a fluorescent orange goo, topped with fatty hamburger meat, and canned jalapeno slices. What a disgrace. This is San Francisco, an epicurean destination. I’m sure anything on the menu of a Midwestern minor league ballpark is a couple of Michelin stars above this. Left alone for five minutes they would have gotten so soggy they would have to be eaten with a spoon.

We scarfed it up before all the chips went limp. At $15.50 I wasn’t about to chuck it in the compost bin. We had brought in our own water. Good thing I don’t day-drink because the price of a beer starts at $13.50 for a Bud. I could stop by Safeway on the way home and pick up a 12-pack of Bud for $9.99. I know the vendor doesn’t set the price but, nonetheless, I had the urge to walk up to him and say, “You have got to be fucking kidding me!”

I immediately thought about that 12-pack of Modelo Especial and the two couples on the train. They had probably looked at the drink menu and barked, “Good thing we’re already drunk!” and ended up nursing a 32-ouncer all game.

The Giants outlasted the Padres 2-1. We rode back in the quiet of our express train home, nerves racked by the nail-biting 9th inning. I am sure the cast from our trip up to the park had caught their second wind and spilled into a local saloon. God bless them. I know all about taking your act on the road. It can be exhausting.