The first guy didn't pay, but talked. “How's it going,” I asked.
“Fine, how are you,” he said. “Really good!” The second guy, behind him, paid but didn't speak. Some might prefer the latter customer. You know which I preferred! Later the first fellow came forward, being now the only passenger remaining. “How's your day?” I asked again. I’ve discovered you can ask this question in paraphrase more than once without anyone noticing. “Good,” he replied. “Ups and downs.” “Ups are good.” “Yeah. And the downs, we just have to be patient.” There was a wisdom in the observation I’d expect from someone at least slightly older. I looked like him in age, which given my babyface appearance meant: he’s younger than me. A college-age man in a leather jacket and scuffed black jeans. “Yeah, the ups will come back around,” I agreed. “How about you?” “Really good, yeah.” “Man," he said, looking around in amazement. "Why is this bus so dirty?!?” I chuckled. Various articles of garbage– food wrappers, beer cans, scraps of paper– nodded back and forth on the floors as we drove along. The 7 crowd is known for adding character, not cleanliness. “I know, it's kind of crazy! It's been out all day. Someone else drove it this morning, then another person, then I got it for the night shift.” “You drive at night?” “Yeah. Until... I'll be off in half an hour.” “That's good. It's a good time to drive actually, no traffic–” “Yeah, I love it.” “And what about the people, they're friends?” I didn't have time to answer, at least not in words. But inwardly I appreciated the common language of his supportive optimism, and looking at the next zone marveled at the timing. “Hang on, I gotta pick up my friend here,” I said, pulling in. I called out to the person waiting: “Hey, Jot!” “Hey!” she said in a sprightly voice. “I'm sorry if I smell like food!” “Oh that's fine! Food smells good!” Like me, Jot also worked evenings, and sympathized with my common schedule. She's a dear. In those days she was on my bus regularly; always the ready grin and hyperactive mind, hair done up just so– a braid today, artful frizz tomorrow– and confidently worn outfits too flattering to describe here. Tonight she’d brought me ice cream. She was only on for a few stops, but you know how a thing like that can send a buzz up your spine, a spiraling wave of joy you ride for the rest of the evening? He asked her, “aren’t you cold?” and she said no, from working in the restaurant all day. A budding pleasantness was spreading. I opened the doors to Will. There are lot of great Wills in bus-driving land; this one’s the street fellow with the cane and uneven gait, who always has a good word for me. “Hey Will,” I said, explaining that I was a short 49 with a different destination. He opted to wait for the next bus, and I bid him farewell. “Thanks man!" He called out as I closed the doors. Jot stepped out; a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Those pre-coronavirus days. “Man, people like you!” our leather-jacketed friend observed. “Sometimes! I've been knowing her for a long time, she's cool.” “You have good energy.” “Thanks man.” He had more to say. “No I'm serious, bro. You have, you have the real stuff. Real good energy. You're not just faking it. I can tell.” “I'm glad it comes across as genuine!” “Oh of course. ‘Cause you can always tell when people are faking it. Even with that homeless guy, you knew his name, the way you talked to him... Good energy, bro. That's special. Man, aren't you cold? She wasn't cold either. Maybe I'm just…” “And you got a coat on, too!” “I'm from Africa. I've been here one year.” “Oh, cool! Welcome to Seattle, I'm glad it's worked out for a year. Where in Africa, Morocco?” “Tunisia, right next to Morocco.” “Cool, man. I have a friend who's married to a man from Tunisia. She's white, he's from Tunisia.” He paused, staring. Then thinking, then exploding with a huge smile: “Celia!” We were both detonating now– “Yes! What? No way! Yeah, Celia and Amin!” “Dude, I knew you would– something about your energy, man, of course! Yeah, this is a picture– I'll wait until you get to a red light. Yeah, this is Celia and Amin in my house!” I couldn’t believe it. Celia, a regular face from forever ago in the stories below. “That's amazing! That's right, they just visited over there. Celia's so cool. I've known her for many years.” “Yeah she is. Amin I've known for seven years, we lived in the same area together.” “This is crazy! This is crazy! What's your name!?” “Ravi.” “I'm Nathan.” We went on like that, living in the glow of goodness and comfort. "Small worlds" make us feel larger, richer, more appropriately entwined in this web of life we spend so much time in; they make us less lonely. Perhaps it’s indulgent of me to share this delightful friend bomb; but I know you know just as many amiable faces, and that it’s equally delightful when worlds we thought unrelated surprise us in their joyful collision. Among my favorite things is catching– trying to catch– the shape of joy as it exists out there, running across the unexpected intersections of goodwill you've built without thinking. Did I know he was my good friend’s husband’s best friend? I could never have guessed. Did he know I was his friend’s wife’s good friend, connections involving cities and homes and journeys thousands of miles apart? Good thing we were both the chatty type, or neither of us would ever have been the wiser. Good thing we were both kind. You never quite know whom you’re talking to. --- More with Celia:
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We were in that special place following the conclusion of a night shift– and by place I mean both physical and psychological. Physical, because walking into the base in those wee hours is a different experience– a beacon of spacious brightness, unusual following everything you've just experienced, like a temple in the woods; and psychological, because only the people there at that hour can relate to your experience. Only they know what night shift involves, sounds like, feels like. Things are normal to you that aren't for others, funny for you but not for the rest, wanted or seen by only you. I enjoy strolling back into this common space.
"Mr. Vass!" yelled Thomas, like me exhausted but happy. I'd waved at him on the street earlier, and now was our chance to talk. "We meet at last! Did you have a fine evening on the 70?" I love how Thomas matches my slightly (should that be very?) ridiculous turns of phrase. I can never tell how serious he's being, but I know exchanging such Victorian volleys always brings us both up. He called out in reply, "It was a wonderful, beautiful, inspirational evening, plenty of people familiar with Christianity enjoying their Easter–" "Oh, that's right!" "And somebody even left me this beautiful phone!" "Gosh, look at that beast! That puts this… to shame!" I pulled out my phone by comparison– 2014’s woefully underpowered Samsung ZTE Zinger, barely four inches and archaic from the day of its release, the world's tiniest, sorriest excuse for a smartphone. I’m always behind on gadgets. "HA!" We destroyed the building with our laughter. The place was in ruins. We cackled it to dust. Through his guffaws he said, "Is that your phone?" "It is!" "You don't– that's what I like about you, Nathan–" "I like to keep it low key!" "I wanna be you when I grow up! Like, when I'm like eighty years old, like, the only thing I want is like a cone with some string strung to it, and if like you can't find the can on the other side to talk to me–" "We're not havin' a conversation!" "–we have nothin' to talk about anyway! Yeah, I just want to get simplified.. hey, what'd you think of that protest?" "You know, I… missed it! I started after it ended." "Awwwww…" "How was it?" "You know, it was, it was very, uh… It allowed me to break out my qualities of patience and understanding…" I grinned. "An excellent character-building afternoon?" "It was wonderful. It was special." "It always is." We were fatigued and sore, but we weren't concerned. We'd sat in traffic for eight hours and picked up unhappy people. Whatever, man. It's all about how you choose to look at things. -- Nathan Converses With His Colleagues: Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 I won’t mention the many issues I take with this awful coworker of mine. I’ll merely point out his obliviousness of how to skip-stop, the better to illustrate what happened: I was southbound at Rainier and Holden, nearing the end of the 7 route, and he was right behind me. When two buses of the same route have the same destination and have caught up with each other, the first bus should skip the stops it can, so the second bus can share some of the load. This speeds up both buses. A passenger was waiting at the Holden stop, but I barreled past, gesturing at the second bus behind me.
Except he didn’t stop. Fifteen-odd minutes later, I recognized that passenger again as he came running toward my bus, now parked at the Henderson terminal. I couldn’t help but feel apprehensive. Was he angry? I bet he was. He had to be. I stepped toward him, opening the doors and trying to quickly prepare how best to explain skip-stopping and that I had trusted the bus behind me to follow the rules and pick him up. He was a dark-skinned middle-aged man dressed in white, a crisp and massive spotless sweatshirt and matching beret. From behind wire-frame spectacles he listened as I did my best, gesturing about the bus behind me and apologizing that that guy didn’t do as I’d hoped. He wasn’t mad. “Yeah, I know,” he said. I breathed a sigh of relief. He explained he was holding a Lost and Found item, one he had come upon and believed belonged to a passenger from my bus. He was attempting to return it and thought I should have it because it looked important. He had boarded a third bus a few minutes later, ran up to my follower at the terminal and gotten chewed out by him, and subsequently ran up to my bus, just before I was to leave. I apologized to him, telling him he was a good man, offering my hand to shake. He took it. “I thought you just wanted to get down the street,” I said. “Thank you so much for comin’ over here, goin’ outta your way like that. I didn’t know.” I took the item, a folder with documents. They did look important. “Man, somebody is gonna love you!” He chuckled and strolled off. I spent my next trip newly energized by him, a man who’d taken at least thirty minutes of his own time to help someone he’d never meet, for no reward, and who didn’t give up when strife was thrown in his face along the journey. His gentle gait as he ambled toward the setting sun spoke his worldview as plainly as anything else: It feels good to do the right thing. Only her eyes were visible beneath her niqab, but isn't that all you need to feel someone's friendliness?
I forget the first words of our exchange. Something banal. Within seconds though, we were off to the races, the story tumbling out of her with the desperation of thoughts that must be shared. “You know, my daughter has been missing. I paid private investigator one thousand nine hundred dollars to find her, and she is living with her dad.” “Is that good or bad?” “Bad. Her dad is terrible man, stole her away from me, him and her stepmom and her sister they tell her bad things about me, not true. So I think if I go over there and talk to her maybe she will listen. Because if I don’t then it’s three voices against one, the three will win, you know?” Makes sense. “Where is she?” “Minnesota.” “That's so far away!” “I know but I have to. I am her mother. It's what mothers do. I will go and wait for her in the street if I have to, homeless if I have to. I love her. I'm going to go over to her and try to get her back. Because that's what mothers do.” There is no substitute for life, real life experience. Art is closest, but even it falls short: what I heard in her present voice was the power of belief. Of love. It was beautiful. I said, “what does her dad say?” She spoke quickly, a headlong passionate rush. I suspected she was similarly zealous in many areas of her life; a woman who coursed her journey forward with tumultuous confidence. “He thinks I am too American,” she replied. “That I am a bad influence. But you know what, he is wrong, because she, my daughter, was born here! She is American!” Her excitement was making me excited. “And also, we can learn from every culture! He doesn't need to shut her out of here. It should be her choice.” “That's what I'm saying! I am her mother and I will love her no matter what, as long as she is kind and compassionate to others, a good human being to herself and those around her, I don't care her choices her religion sexuality. It doesn't matter,” she exclaimed, alight with enthusiasm, and though I couldn’t see her mouth or gesticulating hands I could feel her verve. I said, “It doesn't matter. As long as she's a good person.” “Yes. And her dad doesn't think like that.” At the next red light I turned around in my seat. “You know what, you are a great mom. She is so lucky to have you. I don't know how many other kids wish they had a mom like you.” “Thank you.” Her mind was already whirring on to other topics, and she continued anew: “It can be hard in this country if you don't read or write good English.” “Yeah.” “When I first come here, I got tricked into signing paper. My husband gave me papers to sign and I didn't know what they were. It was divorce and custody papers and now the police tell me I can't do anything about, because I signed it, it's a legal document.” “Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness! That's awful!” “I had her young, my daughter. I met a man in Somalia, him and some others said they would take me to America and that everything would be fine, but they beat me and forced me to come with them here. So I had her when I was thirteen.” “Oh my God that's terrible.” “And I feel like she should know the whole story. About me, about who her dad is.” “Definitely. Oh she needs to know, because it's what happened!” At this point a man walked past. She asked him, “Are you sober?” “What? Yeah.” “I am too. The reason I ask is because I remember you from before. I was the girl on 12th and Jackson, really skinny, always on drugs, crazy.” “No way!” I said. She was the picture of responsibility. “Oh my god,” the man said. “That was you? Yeah, I remember now. You were crazy.” “I been sober twenty-four months now.” “That's amazing. Nine months for me.” “Congratulations to you both,” I said. “Seriously.” To see these two connecting– opposite races, religions, attires... but survivors of the same strife. Her monologue could sit alongside Tennessee Williams: “Yeah when you are depressed sometimes you just want something, anything. I was hurting from losing my daughter and being betrayed by my husband, and this Somali guy at 12th and Jackson gave me 300 (unintelligible) and told me I would be happy. And I took all of it and said oh my god this is everything I ever wanted. But it destroyed my body, my mind, my life. That guy, he does that to so many girls. They say they wanna help you, but they don't care. They ruin your life just to make some money.” “Yeah, he sold to me too. Andrew is his American name.” “I hate that guy. But I realize I have to take responsibility for my life. No one is going to help me. People help me now. If I miss my medication, there is someone who will drive me. But the only reason they help me is because they saw my dedication to helping myself in the beginning. You have to show them you are for real. That you care. Because no one can change you for you. But right now I'm sober, I have a job, an apartment, and a car. Twenty-four months. And I'm going to find my daughter, no matter what it takes.” You felt elevated just listening to her. Inspired. You need this as a public service employee, after day after day with so many folks of less perspective, less self-awareness on the motivations behind their decisions, less galvanizing views on responsibility. I felt uplifted. We talked about her impending Minnesota adventure. I worried the journey could be a recipe for disaster, and wanted to ensure she had the best chances possible. I don’t often hear stories like that turning out well. She had three friends in Minnesota who could help. I told her about attorneys, public defenders, how you can request a different one if you choose. She talked with the other passenger, commiserating on the challenges of sobriety. It’s all about an hour at a time, she said. More like a second at a time, he said. What I appreciated about her, among other things, was the degree to which she gave context. Her willingness to vociferously share with a stranger, especially about these sensitive subjects, was somewhat unique in relation to her cultural background. In sharing with me she dimensionalized the many covered faces I see from around the world, offering concrete example to the complexities even a single life can contain. No matter how many such stories you learn, you can always use a few more. Each is different. She deepened my understanding of the levels of desperation I see at 12th and Jackson. She gave those anguished lives a narratival heft and profundity. I was grateful for the reminder. --- Click for Part II! He remembered my name.
I was sitting on the sidewalk cement, leaning against a brick wall waiting for my bus to show. He walked toward me, calling out "Nathan," arms outstretched in victory. He told me I probably wouldn't remember or recognize him, and I looked on in pleasant bewilderment. But the first echoes of recognition were starting to pulse though: “Your hair is different,” I said. “Yeah, I was way different back then,” he said. “I'm sober now, I got a job working down at the market.” I pointed at his guitar. “Still playing music, creating, that's great!” “What it took was the job. Someone told me if you don't change what's going on, who's around you–” “The environment–” “Your environment exactly, then it's never going to happen. I was relapsing and relapsing again but then the job got me out of it. Someone giving me a chance, that's all it took.” You’ve heard such words before, I imagine, but hear the spirited verve in which he spoke them! Sure, everything we experience has been felt by someone else, and there’s a book someone’s written about everything we find and feel… but that doesn’t mean it isn’t new for you and I. We are, each of us, living life for the very first time. And for him, this new ascension to a healthier life was massive. I agreed. How could it not be? He was a man on 2nd Avenue with the hopeful resilience of youth that’s been scarred but not broken. Picture River Phoenix from My Own Private Idaho, reborn. He said, “I used to wake up play music go to bed with nothing. Wake up with nothing, play music, spend it all, go to bed and get my phone stolen like once a week and have to go through all the trouble on top of everything else. And now if I get my stuff stolen or something happens I've got a base. I live on Queen Anne.” “Wow!” “I work down at the Market. I make $125 a day.” I congratulated him on conquering addiction, and that he's still playing music. “Still creating, that's important.” “Yeah I'm never gonna run out of material. People say you can only make art when you're going through awful stuff and that creativity fizzles out when you get your life together but man, I can always go back to that place in my head and get creative. It's not like I'm going to run out of things to tell. And you too, I remember you let me sleep on the bus a bunch of times and the conversations we would have... you have no idea how that type of thing can help.” I remembered now. “Thanks man. It was good to have you there. It's crazy actually, because I remember us talking about how years from now one day we're gonna laugh about all this.” I could recall the exact moment: on a southbound 4 on 5th Avenue crossing Mercer, and the sun was setting behind him. That would have been over six years ago. The discussion had brought him up at the time, without being entirely convincing; you hope, but you don’t know. Now we knew. That was the last time I saw him. Until now. “Ha,” he laughed. “I remember that too and I remember being kind of pissed in the moment because it's like years from now!?” “Yeah it sucks in the moment, but here we are, it happened!” “Dude, this makes my week.” “I don’t know if you remember but my name’s CJ.” “CJ, Nathan.” We shook hands. “You're the man.” “If you ever want to come by, stop by the market if you ever want to see me. I'm down there. Selling fruit!” He gave a self-aware smile. I gave an unadulterated one, and he grinned wider, walking off into the sunlight. That was six years ago, I thought. watching his form grow smaller in the busy distance. He remembered my name. |
Nathan
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