So most airport shuttle services appear to be a sham. I have deduced this through a lengthy system of experimentation, trial and error, and single use of a solitary unknown non-chain shuttle service saddled with the eponymous moniker of "Pete's Shuttle."

I just happened to have done the driver the great disservice of clearing my throat, and speaking degratorily of him into my always rude cell phone, thus I seem to be last on his delivery list. I've never actually taken a shuttle from the airport before. I've taken super shuttle to the airport dozens of times. But I've always taken a cab home afterwards. This costs way too much money, but I've always had a soft spot in my heart for cab drivers. Not really sure why.

Ah yes, the reasons begin to creep back into my consciousness. 1991, New York City. My folks and I hop in a cab and hurttle into the mid town traffic on a Saturday night. I forget what show we were going to see; possibly the Fantastiks; but lo and behold, amidst all the jokes and stereo types, we get an honest to god New York Cabbie. The guy comes resplendent with a Brooklin accent and a fierce hatred of the Yankees. Like my father, he's a Mets man. the two argue about the 69 Mets. The guys says that the Mets won the series in 68. My father, having been married in '69, and considering that to be, quite possibly, the best year of his life, is adamant that they won in 69. He's right, too. But the cabbie has none of it. His memory is obviously more reliable than this out of towner pushing bills into his face.

Sometimes you'll get english speakers in San Francisco. It's actually a fairly high ratio: around 50-50. The guy driving this shuttle is decidedly not. I don't know where he's from, but he attempted to speak to some incoming Nipponese business men in Spanish. I almost laughed, but in this town, far stranger things have happened.

ALmost as if to mock us, a 25 foot long airport-to-Marin bus pulls alongside the tiny red and white van at a stop light. We're somewhere knee-deep in the Sunset now, I think somewhere around Noriega. This is where the timid come to stay. Those despicable wretches with steady jobs, nice houses, and 2.5 cats/cars/kids. The sort of folks who'd shit themselves in the Mission: and those in the Mission wouldn't bat an eye. They shit themselves daily. It's a fundamental aspect of being a junkie.

We're heading over hills and past streets I've never even heard of now. Way out in N Juda country. The ocean is starting to become a presence in the air. The SHam man pulls a U turn and heads back in the opposite direction, now, a loud clanking N Judah train barreling towards him at upwards of 15 miles an hour (yeah, that's barreling for those puppies.)

We pull a few streets up and shimp to the curb. The first passenger hops out and stuffs some bills in the non-descript driver's face. I pray that he doesn't toss my bags into the street.

And now it's just myself and two other guys behind me. I feel like a regular pompous ass, as though they can read everything I'm writing. I also wonder if maybe, just maybe, one of them will recognize the Star Control 2 music that's streaming out of my sub-par headphones.

At least these guys have respectable addresses. Fulton + Stanyan and Turk and Masonic. My old stomping grounds. Were I still at 1262 Golden Gate, I'd be home soon. But I'd also be miserable.

Onto MacAlester, and alongside the park we go. Or rather, through the park we go. This is nothing like Manhattan. The park roads are narrow and rarely traveled. Except for the freeway that humps through the middle. And New York is not blessed with a Hippie Hill.

So as it turns out, my gentle chiding of the diver's delays wouldn't have made a difference in my dropping order. I'm the closest to the freeway, the furthest from our current location, and the nastiest of the bunch.

Turns out these two other guys don't know each other. One hops into the front seat and lays down, possibly trying to gte away from my tappy tappy tapping. Fuck 'em if they can't take a writer.

It's what I do. Not what I choose to be. It's what I am.