After circumventing the 45 bus, the red carpet on Third Street is all mine. With an eye out for any interlopers who think they’re clever enough to access the transit lane, I scope out the W. and St. Regis for potential fares. At Mission, I see an outreached arm halfway down the block. I flash my high beams and go in for the kill.
“Clay and Battery,” the guy tells me, arranging a bunch of shopping bags on the backseat. “How’s your day going?”
Right as I’m about to respond, a van careens across three lanes of traffic, cuts me off and swervs towards Stevenson.
I hit the brakes and squeeze between the van’s rear bumper and the front end of the car next to me. “Ah, you know… Same old, same old.”
“Wow, that guy almost hit you!”
“Yeah.”
The real tragedy is missing the light at Market.
“Is traffic always this bad?” he asks.
“Eh. It gets worse.”
I Drive S.F. 