The drivers of the Mission Street buses are often cranky at eight in the morning. I board the bus at Twentieth Street carrying a briefcase, a folder of papers containing my substitute teaching assignment and a lunch wrapped up in a paper bag. I walk up the steps and begin searching my pockets for a dollar to slide into the fare machine. My hands are full so I have to set my things down. The seats are taken and the passengers ignore me. I have to place my briefcase, bag and lunch down on the floor of the bus. The bus lunges forward, sending my head crashing against the metal railing. Nobody notices what happened. I pull out my wallet and search for a dollar. I am careful not to flash the large bills inside. It is a rough neighborhood and the no. 14 is notorious for incidence of theft. Unfortunately the smallest bill I have is a five.

I turn my eyes helplessly towards the black bus driver who looks at me disdainfully and says, "You shoulda thought about that shit before you got on the damn bus. Go on, ask somebody for change." I walked down the aisle, jostling from side to side, holding out my five-dollar bill. No one seems to notice. The Mexicans stare straight ahead.

An old squat lady opens her purse and begins searching. "Por favor," I say nervously. "Yo necisita cinco unos."

She pulls out five ones and looks at me, annoyed and says, "This is America. Speak English."

I thank her profusely when a man in the seat behind her pokes me, pointing to my things at the front of the bus that are now being trampled by the oncoming rush of passengers. I squeeze my way through the throng and bend down collecting my papers and grab my briefcase and lunch.

The petulant driver says, "Sweating, aren't you? How ya think I feel, dicking around with the public ten hours a day? Just put the damn money in. A dollar. Where you been? This machine takes only change." Blood rushes to my head and I pause confounded. "Just kiddin', man," he says laughing. "Just sit your ass down."

I can hear his laughter as I walk the aisle in search of a seat. There's only one and its next to a young black man whose long legs are spread out across both seats. I stand waiting.

Finally, the black kid says "Oh, man!' and slides over to allow me to sit down. The bus grinds to a halt at a stoplight.

My lunch falls to the ground. An enormous Mexican woman carrying a huge basket of flowers for sale steps on it. The passengers nearest me are wearing earphones and do not bother to notice.

I gather my things and reach up and pull the cord to get off at Sixteenth Street where I must transfer to the 22 Fillmore line. Outside the streets are swarming with derelicts and hustlers weaving through the crowds. I walk over to the bus stop in front of Burger King. Two young blacks approach me. One is slim with a hairnet and the other is heavy and wears his baggy pants slipping down off his buttocks.

"Hey, man," one says. "Wanna buy a transfer?" I respond by shaking my head.

The other one says, "Where's it?"

"Lemme see your transfer." I realize that I neglected to get one.

"Fifty cents, man. Here, take it!"

I tell him I don't have change. "Give me a fuckin' dollar and take two."

I comply just as the bus arrives. The waves of people, mostly noisy school kids waddle their way onto the bus. I follow to find the same problem again. There are no seats.

I stand with my briefcase and papers clutched between my legs as I reach up holding on tightly to the passenger strap above. I am pressed tightly in among the cramped busload. I am conscious that my leg is touching the thigh of one of the schoolgirls. My briefcase is kicked and is slipping away from me. I reach down to secure it and my head brushes against the young girl's body.

I am sweating and I imagine her expressing her disapproval, saying something like, "Just want a quick touch. Like what you see?" Instead the young girl with dyed purple hair, smacking her chewing gum simply smiles. The bus swings onto Church Street and up to Fillmore. At the corner of Fillmore and Haight the bus suddenly begins to empty. I take a seat and at last and begin to relax. I have another mile to go to get to the school near the Western Addition Projects.

There is the profound silence as the passengers vacate. The amicable and somewhat fragile bus driver and I for a moment share a soft reprieve, an amnesty from the assault of the public. I wipe the sweat from my brow. He finishes his cigarette. The doors close. As we are about to take off, the driver stops. A huge Hispanic guy gets on. His head is partially shaved. He wears a cluster of earrings and has a thick copper nose ring dangling from his nostrils. He walks in long determined strides down the empty aisle. I notice as he walks past me a swirl of tattooed snakes on his forearm and on his exposed chest there's a colorful Aztec design that seems to portray an entire temple motif of Teotihuacan. He is breathing heavily as he is deciding upon which of the many empty seats to take. He grunts and belches and sets his enormous body on the seat across from me. He clenches a rolled and ravaged newspaper in his tightly clenched fist. He looks briefly in my direction and I am careful not to return a glance. He begins staring at me. I am sweating with just speculating what he is thinking. I fear that his searing eyes and even his arsenal of tattoos hate my stiff white face with its luster and look of privilege. I nervously offer a faint smile. I quickly turn away, imagining him saying, "What the hell you looking at?" My eyes go misty as a haze of heat rises in me. The words I then apprehend are: "You got some kind of problem?" I begin to fear his blood from a previous lifetime, the blood splashed on some ancient altar of sacrifice. I fear that he hates my advantages. He despises my eyes that never have had to look into cramped hotel rooms stuffed with hungry families of ten or more with their creaky, stained beds and grimy closets of candle-burning Virgin Mary and rosary altars. I think he is sharpening his talons. The Aztec god sits next to him and both of them are watching me. The bus rides on with no other passengers getting on. His anger I fear rides the rim of a dark crater. Anyone can be victim of this rage. My stop is coming up and I stand with briefcase in my hand. His eyes I think are on my briefcase. What could he imagine is inside? Does he want the fool's gold of the new world. I have nothing for him. No tequila, no skull-shaped cookies for the Day of the Dead. The day he was born his father probably got drunk and deserted him. I'm sorry but it's not my fault. I move to the exit. Oh my God, he follows me. He wants the flesh hot off my bones. His scars and tattoos hiss with the hate he worships to destroy me.

I step off the bus onto Fillmore and McAllister, the heart of the projects. I turn the corner. He is behind me. He is shadowing me into his hell where he could slip a sharp blade into my guts. Morning's mist glides along the street past the taco shops, the Filipino bar, and the Chinese laundry. I approach the cross streets where only recently drive-by shootings have occurred. A voice calls out. It's his voice. He's calling me. I hasten my walk, one foot after another, quickening. I do not dare look back. A police car rushes by. A siren blares.

His breath is near and his words are upon me. "Sir," I hear him say. "Please, not safe here, teacher." I am startled at these words. He calls me teacher. "Are you teacher at Walling High? You look like teacher. Are you, maybe, the substitute? Yes, I thought you are teacher. Come follow me. This is a bad, very bad place here. My teacher is sick. Mr. Jacobs. You know Mr. Jacobs, twelfth grade Math? Yes? You are the sub, today. Good, sir! I am the class helper. Follow me. Not far, sir. Follow me."