On Wednesday, riding back to Caltrain from radiation therapy at UCSF, I was treated to another glimpse of San Francisco’s ad hoc community, this particular one starting in the front car of the N Judah yesterday. Three elderly people, a couple and a guy had gotten on the standing room only noontime inbound train, as had I. With various shuffles and contortions by the standing crowd, the 3 had been somehow shuttled through the car to the foldup wheelchair/disabled reserved seats at the front, a minor Metro miracle in itself.

The male half of the couple began to nod a bit as the train went underground: the lone guy, seated kattycorner from the bright-eyed, white haired woman, began to tell her an animated story. Her smile and nods only encouraged him, and he began to extemporize with greater animation and more frequent gestures. Standing almost at mid car, I could see, but only occasionally hear phrases of his tale over the screeching wheels and sounds of the train in the Market Street tunnel.

Eventually the car thinned out as we hit the big transfer and downtown destination stations. The eldely couple exited at Embarcadero, the woman waving to the guy who’d been amusing her. As the train pulled away, the guy, maybe in his late 80s, half stood and cried out ‘Holy shit! Where am I? Is this Powell?’ A beefy guy with a handlebar mustache and a ponytail who’d claimed one of the couple’s seats, kidded him good-naturedly about letting a woman turn his head, and explained that he was about to be 3 stops past Powell St. station.

‘Don’t worry… it’s easy to go back from the next station. I’ll tell you how’ he said. The elderly guy was anxious.’Do I have to cross the tracks to the other side?’ ‘No! Don’t cross the tracks. Just walk to the other side of the platform.’ But the older guy’s anxiety was now palpable. ‘Do I have to cross the street? How do I cross the street?’ ”No’ answered Handlebar. I’ll tell you what to do when we get there.’ ‘Do I need a ticket?’ asked the old guy. “Maybe cost you 15 bucks,’ laughed Handlebar trying to ease the elder man’s qualms, ‘those women will cost you every time.’

The train came to the Folsom/Embarcadero stop, an above-ground station not far from the Bay Bridge. The station is new, consisting of a concrete platform between the tracks, that is partly covered by undulating glass panels: curved glass partitions divide the platform (and break the winds in winter). Handlebar repeated his instructions, and helped the old guy to his feet. The old guy stepped out on to the platform.

It was looking good, but then, as the doors slid shut, the old guy began to turn away from the outbound platform, just feet away, and look wildly around; his jaw slackened and mouth opened, confusion writ large in his features. Just as it was looking bad, a neatly dressed and coiffed Asian woman, who’d been privy to the conversation and had stepped off the train ahead of him, grabbed his elbow, and could be seen walking him to the outbound platform as the train moved away, picked up speed, and left our small drama behind. You want ‘San Francisco Values?” I got yer San Francisco Values right here… and I ain’t trading ‘em for anything the Republicans have to offer…

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