When it came to the financial industry, I was clueless. Still, despite my obvious lack of qualifications, I inexplicably stumbled onto my dream job with Robertson Stephens, a prominent investment bank that took start-up technology companies public more frequently than I visited the men's room. I spent each day working on the twenty-fifth floor of the Bank of America building, high above the thick morning fog and the hustle and bustle of the fast-paced city below. From my desk, I enjoyed a postcard vista of San Francisco: Telegraph Hill, Coit Tower, Alcatraz, and, in the distance, the Golden Gate Bridge.

Investment people often use the terms "upside" and "downside" to refer to the pros and cons of any given situation. I had managed to stumble onto a job that offered plenty of the former.

This job did have some downside. Twelve-hour workdays were the rule rather than the exception. But working long hours turned out to be a positive thing because it kept me from spending money I didn't yet have. Until I received my year-end bonus check eight months later, it would be challenging to live within my means on my starting salary of $25,000. Out of necessity, my budgeting efforts included sharing an apartment with a pothead roommate above a noisy karaoke bar, buying five-gallon vats of peanut butter and jelly at Costco, and taking public transportation to work.

The 30X is short for the San Francisco Muni #30 express bus line. It ferries throngs of attractive, well-groomed, pleasantly scented, young professionals from the yuppie-filled Marina District to the Financial District. Compared to the price of public parking downtown, the bus's $1 fare was a bargain; and even factoring in the stops, the entire commute usually only lasted about fifteen minutes. If you worked downtown, riding the 30X was a no-brainer.

I remember being excited about my first day. Dressed in my navy-blue suit, red tie, and well-shined loafers, I fit right in with the other fifteen financial types waiting for the 30X on Chestnut Street.

After feeding my crisp one-dollar bill into the fare slot, I staked out a standing position near the rear door of the nearly filled coach. I felt as if I had mistakenly walked into a photo shoot for a J. Crew or a Brooks Brothers catalog. While everybody looked all-American, this group of young, well-dressed, and mostly white commuters was far from what I'd call a representative slice of America. At each of the remaining five stops along Chestnut Street, an endless stream of these perfect-looking, Stepford commuters piled in.

After picking up its final passenger, our bus began the one-mile express leg of our trip downtown. Within three or four minutes, I figured, I would be walking into my new office for my first day of work.

Twenty minutes later, and less than a half-mile from my downtown destination, rush-hour traffic had trapped us inside the Broadway tunnel. People began to glance down at their Rolex watches and impatiently tap their Gucci-clad feet. The yuppies were growing restless.

Traffic showed no signs of moving, but my bowels were beginning to. Knowing that they'd already performed admirably this morning provided little comfort. As the legal disclaimer that appears in mutual fund advertisements says, past performance is no guarantee of future performance. As I fretfully pondered whether this ride would ultimately end in disaster for me, I revisited a long-standing question: if I did have an accident, exactly how obvious would it be? My only reference point was an unpleasant high-school memory that my subconscious was now dredging to the surface.

After a ski race in northern New Jersey, twelve of us were returning to campus in the school's van. Three hours earlier, when we'd arrived at the mountain, I'd found out too late that the lodge was closed ... and the race shack had no toilet. I got caught in the worst way: with my pants up. Using fresh snow and my soon-to-be-discarded long underwear, I'd cleaned myself to the best of my ability. A few hours later, and only five minutes into our return trip back to school, Kendall, sitting to my immediate left, wasn't happy.

He took a deep breath and yanked his turtleneck collar well above his nose. "Oh my God, that is so uncool. Who did that?"

Nobody said anything. The minutes passed, and Kendall's turtleneck eventually descended from his face. The crisis seemed to be over.

Moments later, after another reluctant sniff, Kendall's tone became more threatening. "Damn it, somebody dropped another one! Who was it?"

Silence. Who in their right mind would confess to such a crime? Certainly not me. I couldn't believe how long my luck had already lasted. Could he possibly continue to think somebody was merely passing gas?

Kendall again hoisted his turtleneck and raised his voice. "Who the hell keeps doing that?" His questions were not born out of curiosity, as if merely identifying the odor's source would solve some brainteaser he was working on. He was on a warpath. This was about inflicting physical retribution, pure and simple.

When it became clear that no confession would be forthcoming, Kendall eventually put two and two together. "Wait a minute ... I think somebody crapped his pants!"

I spent the rest of the ride with my Walkman on and my eyes closed, trying to give the appearance of guiltless slumber. Nobody ever fingered me as the culprit.

Now, standing on the bus, I still wondered exactly how Kendall made that leap from gas to solid. Did one smell distinctly different than the other? Or was it the stench's refusal to dissipate? The answer had direct relevance for me.

When I looked around, I saw that more than a few of these young professionals came across as self-absorbed and arrogant. Their smug attitudes seemed to say, "My shit doesn't stink." Maybe so, but mine sure did -- a fact that I hoped these people would never find out firsthand.

Why should I care about what a busload of total strangers thought of me?

I cared because these people were strangers only because I had not been introduced to them yet. We all lived in the same small part of town, shopped at the same stores, and drank at the same bars. We also worked in the same industry, where everyone seemed to know one another. In all likelihood, I would eventually find myself either working with some of them or maybe even asking them for a job. Equally important, having recently moved to town, I didn't yet have any dating prospects. The bus was packed with attractive, young, professional women. One of the tenets of sound investing is not putting all your eggs in one basket. Being known as the guy who "lost it" on the 30X would be more than humiliating. It would render me a professional and social leper.

I had to get away from these people. I had to get off this bus.

"Excuse me, please," I said, reaching for my lifeline -- the semi slack plastic cord hanging above the windows.

"What are you doing?" asked the man whose Wall Street Journal I had accidentally knocked down.

"Sorry about that," I said. "I'm late. I'm going to get off and walk." I yanked the cord twice to make sure the driver noticed. I heard the bell ring twice. So did everybody else. But the doors remained closed. As I reached to tug the cord again, I noticed that I was on center stage.

My friend with the Wall Street Journal was kind enough to bring the oblivious rookie up to speed. "What are you thinking? You can't get off before Montgomery. It's an express bus."

"But we're not even moving," I protested. "Do they expect us to just sit here?"

Returning his eyes to the Journal, he said, "Yeah, pretty much." He said it as if being trapped against your will in an overcrowded bus in a dark tunnel was not a grave injustice on par with a violation of the Geneva Convention, but rather something of a nonevent. Who knew how much longer it would be before the bus left the tunnel and pulled onto Montgomery Street? I was seething over my involuntary confinement.

My feeling of helplessness briefly gave way to my raw fury. I wanted to hit somebody. I wanted to kill somebody. This was criminal!

Preoccupied with retribution, I almost didn't realize the bus had begun to roll forward. The wheels were turning slowly, but we were at least moving. Motion -- any motion -- was progress. Motion was hope. Motion meant that the terror wasn't going to last forever.

It wasn't long before rays of natural light beamed through the bus' windshield. Seconds later, the tops of the tall, silver towers of the Bay Bridge, shimmering beneath the morning sun, came into view. After a momentary tap on the brakes, the wheels started to roll once again. Seeing the acres of drying laundry that hung perpetually from Chinatown's fire escapes like ornaments from a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, I knew that I had survived the Broadway tunnel and was now just around the corner from Montgomery Street.

In reality, how frequently did the 30X get stuck inside the Broadway tunnel? I had no idea. And in my mind, the answer didn't matter. Even if something like this happened only once every year, that would be too often. After only one ride, I had completed my analysis. Riding this bus carried far too much downside.

There's more where that come from. Check out Romance, Riches, and Restrooms by Tim Phelan -- an author whom we're proud to call a PoopReporter.