When I lived in San Francisco I lived fairly close to Market Street, where the street cars run. Those beautiful retro street cars from Italy were my favorite way to get around the city, with their wooden seats and brass detailing and their microphones.
Yes. Microphones.
Now, I am not referring to small speakers, capable of communicating with passengers in case of an emergency or announcing the next step. These things were the virtual equivalent of a bullhorn, endowing the driver with the capacity to inform the surrounding blocks with his thoughts, feelings, and whatever song might be in his head.
Which they frequently did. Sing, I mean.
See PERSONALITY would get you one of these coveted position Muni positions. They were coveted. An honor.
That’s how I heard it anyway: everyone who drove a Muni bus wanted to drive an F Market Streetcar. Nobody wanted the trolley cars. Bad breaks. Hell to stop. And the 22? Well, ever ridden the 22? Enough said.
But it took charm to get a street car driver assignment.
But I digress... about once a week a particular Muni driver would wolf whistle at me. Over the microphone. OVER THE MICROPHONE HE WOULD WOLF WHISTLE AT ME.
It was awesome.
Sure, I cold have taken it badly. Asserted my feminine indignation.
But I presumed it was all in good spirits. I mean, what kind of 50 year old man asserts a mating dance with a girl half his age from the driver seat of a large bullet shaped train?
The best part would be that, initially, it was unclear where the whistle was coming from. And it felt like the world was whistling at me. Some higher power. LIKE THE LORD WAS CHECKING ME OUT.
Yes.
It was awesome.
Sometimes when I am feeling particularly insecure, now, I call forth that memory. I walk out the door and imagine a wolf whistle coming through the ether. A little bit of lust from the almighty.
Alright baby!
And I give a little nod of thanks to the sky, toss my hair, and go along my merry way.