Third and Virginia northbound, taking Queen Anne residents home on the 3. Inside our bus is the weary calm of commuters exhausted, fatigued, relaxed- decompressing as they look out the window, transitioning into a happier state. They still wear the withdrawn isolation of their various workplaces; no unnecessary noise, no needless risks, everything just so as they perform the motions needed to make it through the sweaty, humming animal we call the afternoon rush hour. It is serene in here; placid, one might even say.
Outside at the zone, just three feet away, near our bus's doors, all is not placid. A woman, a Dickensian citizen of the slumming street, is hollering.
"I see you, motherfuckers! I eat shit two days a week, fuckin' five thirty! Assholes on the outside, assholes on the inside..."
A few more commuters step on, raising their eyebrows.
"How's it goin," one asks with a sympathetic grin. We smile. There is something about the radically different approaches people take to life that excites me. When we put aside the thought of whose approaches are "better," we can simply sit back and enjoy the amusing, richly energizing human comedy at it's fullest. She continues-
"Assholes don't EAT corn flakes! Get away from my vintage fucking..."
"I'm learning some new words!" I quip to the passengers around me.
"Pickin' up somethin' new everyday!"
"Let's, uh, get outta here," I say into the mic to visible relief. "I'm gonna close the doors."
"Not a bad idea," smiles a well-dressed commuter seated further back. She seems intrigued by the idea of simply accepting all of this madness, invigorated by the notion of putting aside fear and judgment for a moment. It is a galvanizing renewal.
Out loud I say, "it's a character-building experience, waiting at Third and Virginia!"
"That it is!"
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