A review of being talked at about Oakland by the car attendant of the California railroad museum’s 45 minute excursion train ride through West Sacramento

If it’s pointed out to you, while you rumble along the tracks, you can just see the field where the Sacramento River Cats play in West Sacramento, which is where now the team once called the Oakland Athletics plays, apparently quite badly, and although they are officially only called the Athletics–no city name attached–the uniformed, volunteer car attendant, for some reason, insisted that they be called the West Sacramento Athletics, not the Sacramento Athletics, which absolutely no one had, though perhaps they’d have had a chance to, if he’d ever stopped talking, but it was when he related the thrilling anecdote of a drive-by “in Fruitville” in response to our grudging reply that no, we did not live here, we live in Oakland, and when he related a few very tedious thoughts about the problems with Oakland, something must be done, it was then that I began, truly, to hate the man. He also made reference to The Homeless, of which, not to do a point-in-time survey, but sir, why are you talking down Oakland when Sacramento’s visible unhoused population sure seems to be as large or perhaps greater? And then, suddenly, what an absurd and ugly thought to have, I thought. Something about this old guy’s amiably vaguely-reactionary implications suddenly made me into a person that would make such a comparison, as if MY town and HIS town were in competition in that vulgar regard (and as if I really care that much that the Athletics are in Sacraments, sorry WEST Sacramento), and what an obscene way to think about the crime against humanity that is mass homelessness, to let it become a competition between cities, and to be mad at him for being contemptuous about mine. Though it suddenly occurred to me that maybe that was why he mentioned a “drive-by,” an oddly 1990s way of referencing The Problem With Oakland, but perhaps a way to reference the kind of cultural specter Oakland may well still have, for a Sacramentan, a place filled with the kind of crime that maybe Sacramento can be imagined not to have? Or maybe not, maybe it was just the words his brain formed and delivered to his mouth. Maybe if I was less irritated by his constant conversation, as if we’d paid $18 for adult tickets–free for kids–to enjoy his company, I’d have been able to enjoy it; apparently, as he told us in an offhand way, he had worked in some kind of telecommunications company, in Tehran, when the Shah fell. That was the sort of story I suspect I’d actually like to hear, and maybe, had I not been annoyed by his endless talking, I might even have asked him to tell us about it. But the ride was over before I did, and we’re leaving Sac before we’d have a chance to see a game, to pay $50 for a lawn “seat” over in right field or $117.20 for a view from home plate. Go Ballers, I guess, a team I also have not gone to see when I’ve had the chance.