Embarcadero Man
Written and photographed by Neva Ryan
On buses, she sat on the seat
Second from the back
Behind the stairs
On bart, she sat anywhere
As long as no one looked at her
On amtrak, she needed to sit
In the right direction
Her body could not be carried backwards
She needed to turn away from home
So as to not confuse herself
She had
Paper printed tickets
Glassy barcodes on screens
Plastic blue cards
And two crumpled dollar bills
The seats at home were hospital-wall blue
The scent of latex gloves
Too-clean hands
Touching her neck
Reminded her of
Sewn together seats
Cushioned
As if we needed comfort
In commute
The new trains carried single seats
Faced in opposite directions
The people didn’t really want
To be separated
The silence of strangers was not comfortable,
But it was comforting
She squished her hips between the red
Triangles
To step out of the station
She paused
For too many seconds
And caught the man’s eye
She’d seen him before
On the 15 minute train ride to Embarcadero
He got close to her
In her face
And she braced herself for the impact
Of a stranger’s skin
This time
Baggy pants and a puffy red jacket
Occupied the space behind her
His stare was all
The Embarcadero man needed
And she saw his retreat
“I didn’t touch her, I didn’t touch her”
In his throat
She was used to protecting herself
But swallowed
And walked out of the station
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