18SAN FRANCISCO, MID-SEPTEMBER 1971—Ty stood in the aisle. His hand throbbed; his groin ached; his head hurt. He held the chrome overhead bar with his right hand as he had each workday evening for the past month. She sat in front, as always, sideways as always, behind the driver. He kept his left hand in his jacket pocket, slouched, stared up, forward, aware of her yet not looking at her, aware of her long straight hair, gaunt face, long straight body. He wanted to watch her, catch the light blue of her eyes if she raised her face. But he dared not. The man in the Raiders jacket was not behind him. Behind him was a haggard black woman with two children. Since they’d boarded she’d been berating the boy, perhaps eight years old, for having dropped ice cream on his pants. “How’m I gon clean e
