The Last Car

The Last Car

It has been 25 years and I still can’t ride on the last car of a BART train.

On Friday afternoon I’m standing on the windy BART platform at Rockridge, wearing my Walkman and listening to a Wham! cassette. My older brother, Michael, is wearing his light brown jacket with the zip-off sleeves and playing with the big Casio watch he got for his 13th birthday. We don’t talk very much, but it’s a comfortable quiet. I pat my sock, where I have the emergency money stashed; I begged Mom for a turn to keep the $10 bill, wanting to feel older and responsible. The Daly City train pulls in and we get on the last car. We always sit in the last one so Dad can hop on at Powell Street and ride with us to Daly City, where we spend every weekend with him.

When we pull into Oakland West, the sun is sinking over the port of Oakland and we’re the only ones in our car. Two men step through the open doors, look around at the empty seats and sit down across the aisle from us. Even at 9 years old, I know this is odd. I turn the sound down on George Michael’s voice singing about Last Christmas and try not to look like I’m watching them. One man turns to the other and starts talking loudly about how glad he is to be out of jail. The other one says that he’s so mad at his old lady he wants to kill her.

Michael is staring at his watch and I’m sneaking looks at the two men as the train rumbles toward the bay. They’re both dressed in old clothes, one a ripped camouflage jacket and the other a jean jacket. They look like guys who are just down on their luck and I wouldn’t be scared of them, except for the conversation they’re having and that they’re right next to us.

The camouflage-jacket man looks at Michael and says, “Hey, that’s a nice watch you’ve got there.” Michael nods and doesn’t say a word.

The other man says, “Yeah, I’d like to have a watch like that.”

Michael keeps looking at his hand, but he stops touching the watch.

“Why don’t you give me that watch,” the camouflage-jacket man smiles.

Michael unhooks the clasp and takes it off his wrist. I say, “Michael, that’s your new watch!”

But he just looks at me and shakes his head, his dark brown eyes are locked on mine and I finally understand that we are powerless as the train rattles our seats through the transbay tunnel. Tears fill my blue eyes and slide down my cheeks. I watch them make wet spots on my rainbow sweatshirt.

The camouflage-jacket man is talking to my brother again, asking if he has any money he can spare. Michael takes his wallet out of his backpack and opens the Velcro tab along the top. He pulls out two dollar bills and some change. The jean-jacket man grabs the wallet from his hand and searches every pocket. When he doesn’t find any more money inside he throws it back at Michael. I’m tensed and ready for them to demand money from me; the thought of giving them our emergency money scares me more than anything. What if they make us get off at a different stop with them? What if we’re lost, with no money, and Dad doesn’t know how to find us?

While I silently panic, the train pulls in to the white bubbled walls of Embarcadero Station. The men stand up and walk off the train without looking at us. I watch through the window as they disappear in the crowd.

A bunch of business people get on the train and I look at the walls whizzing by, counting to 100 in my head and praying that Dad will be at Powell Station. When the doors open and he walks in, I begin sobbing. Dad asks my brother what’s wrong but he can’t get any words out. I calm down and tell him what happened, ending with how the men never asked me if I had any money, so it’s still safe in my sock.

When we get off the train at Daly City, Dad takes us to make a report to the BART police officer. Michael doesn’t want to go and when we sit in the small office, he won’t talk, so I have to answer the officer’s questions. As I talk about the men stealing Michael’s watch, I cry again. Dad holds my hand and I see that it’s shaking. He’s holding on too hard, but I don’t tell him, because I don’t want him to let go.

After that night we always sit on the first BART car, as close to the driver as we can get. My brother never talks about what happened on the train. Already an introvert, Michael gets quieter, only expressing himself when he plays his guitar. For years I keep extra money wedged safely in my sock. Friends ask why I do it, and I tell them “just in case.”

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Megan Davis is a writer and science educator who lives in Walnut Creek.


 

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