About a year or so ago, I was heading inbound on Powell Street & California when a little girl and her mother got on my car. They were locals, out for an evening of cable car joyriding. The mother turned to me and said, “We’ve been riding the cars all day, and we’ve given them all names. What is this cable car’s name?”

I usually have an answer to most questions, even (especially) the blatantly stupid/smart-alecky ones, but this one had me floored.

There’s a charming children’s book called Maybelle the Cable Car, written in 1947, that tells the story of the fight to save the cars from "progress", i.e. extinction. The heroine of the book is Maybelle, a Powell-Mason cable car.

I had first seen this book during a stint working at the Cable Car Museum, and during slow periods, I had thoroughly enjoyed the story (it’s written for Kindergarten through 3rd grade, so it was perfect for my reading skills).

“Uh…um…this car is named…Maybelle?”

“Oh, we have that book!” The little girl held up a copy of the book. On the cover was Maybelle, in late 1940s Muni livery—grey roof, green body, white ends.

I was gripping Car #9, done up in a (close) approximation of the Market Street Railway Co. scheme—grey roof, green body, white ends.

Hey!!!! (light bulb over head.)

“…You know, Maybelle is a real cable car. Did you know that?”

Skeptical smile from mother and daughter. “Nah–uh.”

“No, really. Maybelle is real. Don’t you believe me?”

“Nah–uh.”

“All right, when you guys get off the car, take a look at your book, look at my car, and tell me what you think, okay?”

Big smile. “Uh–kay.”

They stepped off at Geary. The little one lifted up her book, flipped through a few pages, then looked up. Her face lit up like a thousand-watt light bulb.

“Mommy! MOMMY!! LOOOOOOOOK!!! IT’S MAAAYYYYBELLE!!!”

Mom took the book from her daughter, smiling indulgently (“Yes dear, okay, I see it”), glances at the cover, and then she looks up too—then quickly looks down at the book, then back up again.

Mom does this several times.

As I roll away, the little one is jumping up and down, waving frenetically, while Mom stands there holding the book, mouth slightly open, standing stock-still.

I’ve given the book to several children—friends’ kids—for birthdays, Christmas, etc. I always tell them the same thing. “Maybelle is a real cable car, you know.”

“Nah–uh.”

Then I show them a picture of Car #9.

“Maybelle!!”

Cable cars are distinctly different from each other. They all have different characteristics, depending on the weather, passenger load, track conditions, so on. Some are good, some aren’t that great. Some will give you nothing but trouble, others nearly drive themselves. Each one is an individual—almost like a person—with particular traits and habits.

In the book, Maybelle is sweet, gentle, kind, and loves her job. When a big, bad Diesel bus sarcastically comments on her age and obsolescence, instead of snapping back with a witty reply, or just ignoring the brute, Maybelle is deeply hurt. After a disastrous attempt by the bus to negotiate Powell Street after a rainstorm, which nearly sends the bus to the junkyard, the bus sheepishly apologizes. Maybelle graciously accepts, and the two part as friends.

In real life, Car #9 is outstanding, and consistently reliable. In three years of operation, it’s had its slot blade (emergency brake) used only once. This is a remarkably good record for a cable car. No matter how many or how few people are onboard, rain or shine, it behaves the same way, every time—stops on a dime with minimal effort. A gripman’s dream. We call it The Cadillac.

Well, other people call it that. I have a different nickname for it…her. Officially, it’s Car #9. To me…well….

Maybelle is a real cable car, you know….