Did you miss my interview on KUOW 94.9? No worries! Here is the full seventeen-minute interview! Hope you enjoy!

A note for Community Transit and First Transit operators– I love you! You know I'm poking fun here in loving jest only. You're just as capable as the best of them, and you'll always get a wave from me, no matter what agency you work for. We're all in this together.

A warm thank you to the great Ross Reynolds, Adwoa Gyimah-Brempong and Bond Huberman... and all you lovely listeners. 

​See you on the road!

The sensation was that of riding on air, a wave of euphoria whose origin I could hardly trace.

I told them about the reroute. This was going to be exciting– if for no one else than at least myself, what with the pleasant diversion of driving a nine-foot wide, sixty-foot long articulated coach on new streets. Almost immediately a young woman bounced up and asked furtively, politely, "I know this isn't a bus stop but is there any chance, possibly, maybe, that you could, just for today...."

"Sure," I replied with a smile. "Quick, before, anyone sees!"

Her normal stop was twenty-seven blocks away. Look at that smile. Was she cute? Of course she was. Everybody's cute, when they're in the mood she was in.

I caught up to the bus scheduled just before me (my "leader," in bus parlance), who'd neglected the reroute and was now paying the price in lost time. He was busy and crowded; we ambled along behind, hardly working and half empty, looking for people to pick up to make his job easier. Bus-savvy passengers know the second bus of two is always the preferred choice, and half the time ends up in the lead anyway. There's room to sprawl out in here.

As I parked behind my leader at the transit center, my relief driver ambled over with a smile, understanding the situation at a glance. I explained the brilliance of the reroute to him, and we talked about turns and clearances and express lanes. Don't you love how work jargon rolls right off the tongue? Bruce. He and I are birds of a feather.

I gestured to another passenger onboard, motioning the half-lost middle-aged mother to come forward and fret not, it's okay now, Bruce the friendly bus driver is taking over and all is well again. I identified her to Bruce as "the wonderful young lady up front," and she laughed, maybe because she needed to: she was on her way to comfort a sick sibling, had flown in from out of town to do so. Ah, family. I gave Bruce the bus and walked away with a smile, listening to their two voices merging.

Driving the base car back to the base to clock out, sitting in slow but moving traffic, moving faster now, with the radio tuned to friendly voices, interviews and laughter. The swishing wipers offer a backbeat, the drum rhythm of city life. I dashed into the base, signing my name out and returning the base car. The window man asked if I was coming back for my second shift later on.

"In a few hours," I replied, quipping, "I'm gonna go home and think about it for a while!"
"Do you know Nathan?" he asked a nearby supervisor.
"Do I know Nathan? Of course I know Nathan! Filmmaker, blogger, bus driver photographer extraordinaire..."
"Oh gosh, you guys," I said.
The other continued, "but have you met Nathan? There's knowing and there's meeting. I know who the president is..."
"Oh no, don't compare me to that guy! We're two different people, I swear!"

I jogged back out into the pouring parking lot, excited to rush home for a few hours, enough time to cook a meal, work on my film, write this draft, and who knows– maybe even relax for a second. I leapt over the water puddles toward my car, calling out to another colleague, "wonderful weather we're having!"
"Um, yeah," she cried, shaking her head. "I love swimholes!!"

The metaphor of a pot reaching a boil isn't generally used to describe the sensation of such mundane tasks, but isn't that exactly what the most worthwhile, most deeply earned bliss feels like? These were the moments in between, that by rights should barely register in the raising of our mood, if we're to believe what we're told... who knew these things could make my day? Running to my car in the rain, reroutes and road reliefs?

There is a type of well-being that floods one's system almost surreptitiously. It is the slow accumulation of interactions in which we feel whole, accepted– loved not by our loved ones but by everyone, included in the fabric of the world at large, the embrace that tells us it's okay to be who we are. It seems to come from nowhere, but it’s a torrent coursing through your veins. Belonging. Oddly, the effect is strongest in interactions with people we barely know. We already know our small network of family and friends loves us. This is the world, speaking through the language of the ordinary, telling you your family is the entire population. 

When you're nice to a stranger, you may be helping them toward that sensation, building a block, offering one of a series of moments that infuses them with that unspeakably beautiful feeling of acceptance. I've said it before (in the post below, ha!), and I'll say it again– the positive impact you have on others will always be larger than you're aware.

----

In the spirit of this story, I'm compelled to add to the compilation post for new operators another story, written after the death of Eric Garner, that explores the meaning behind these lil' interactions and how effortlessly they teach goodness to others during these bizarre and troubled times.

"Man, she, she was always worried something like this might happen. That's why I been the way I am. For them, just in case she needed me. Just in case it came to this. I stayed out of trouble with the law, never been arrested or charged with anything my whole life. I didn't get involved. Never got married, never had kids, 'cause the financial burden. Din't want to get caught up in any of that, just in case for her. My friends they would always be all like, man, why you don't hang? They be laughin', makin' their fun.... They get it now. They done stopped laughin' now." 

He rode my evening 7 for months before we began striking up a rapport. Hesitant nods and eyes at first, intermittent, him with his big headphones and quiet eyes, a contrast to his built physique. He was a bouncer, going in for the evening shift. The 7 before mine would drive by, but he preferred my ship, the easy sense of calm and camaraderie I'm told floats through my bus. I'd spy him sitting in the back, always the back corner, big book in hand. 

We'd gotten to exchanging a few words at the start of a ride or parked outside at the terminal, before he strode back there– "to get my read on." Even if it's in the silences, you get to know certain people as the seasons turn over. 

I knew enough of him, knew him long enough, to feel the gut sucker punch of his tragedy when he told me. One night I was hearing how his father wasn't doing too well... and now here we are, too soon, two men lost under a streetlight, wondering why the waves of the ocean have stopped moving.

"These are the days of after," Don Delillo wrote. "Everything now is measured by after."

Michael. That was his name. Mike. His sorrow had the shape of rueful understanding, in the will of his preparation. Those are his words above, elucidating certain of his life choices; because a mother can only take care of her ailing husband for so long, can only be helped by him when he's alive and able. Can only be held up from collapse by love.

They done stopped laughing now.

Who takes care of the caretaker?

Michael will.

I want to share a story with you. It sounds like it’s about a monk. It isn’t.

It’s about you, and me, and anyone else on this planet who has to interact with other human beings. It’s especially about people who work jobs in which they help others. Nod your heads, you lovely nurses, bus drivers, policemen, social service people, and so many more. It’s an old story from another language, so I’m including multiple translations to give you the full range of the idea, and let you enjoy the nuances of how stories get sculpted across culture and time.

Here goes:

1. A Monk was walking alongside a stream when he saw a Scorpion struggling in the water. 
2. Once in a monastery two monks walked about doing their morning duties. As they passed a small bowl, filled with rain, they saw a scorpion was drowning in the water.
3.  An old man meditating by the riverside opened his eyes to see a scorpion flailing helplessly in the water.
4. One morning, after he had finished his meditation, the old man opened his eyes and saw a scorpion floating helplessly in the water.
5. One day two monks were walking by the river. While doing so, one of them noticed a scorpion struggling in the water. 
6. Two monks were washing their bowls in the river when they noticed a scorpion that was drowning.

1. Knowing that scorpions cannot swim, he quickly plunged into the water to rescue it. Carefully, he picked the Scorpion up with his fingers and walked to the bank.
2. One monk reached in to save the creature.
3. The water washed the scorpion nearer to a tree growing on the river bank. Supporting his body on one of the long roots stretching into the water, the old man extended his hand out to reach the creature.
4. As the scorpion was washed closer to the tree, the old man quickly stretched himself out on one of the long roots that branched out into the river and reached out to rescue the drowning creature.
5. Knowing that scorpions can’t swim, the monk knew if he did not save the scorpion, it would drown. Thus, carefully picking up the scorpion, the monk rescued it from drowning. 
6. One monk immediately scooped it up and set it upon the bank.

1. Just when he was about to set the Scorpion down, it turned and stung his hand. 
2. As soon as his fingers touched the panicking Scorpion, it stung him– 
3. His fingers barely touched the scorpion when it stung him.
4. As soon as he touched it, the scorpion stung him.
5. And as he was just about to set it down, the scorpion stung his finger. 
6. In the process he was stung.

1. The Monk, being in pain, drew his hand back and as a result the Scorpion was flung back into the stream.
2. -and the monk dropped the Scorpion back into the water. The monk sighed, 
3. The old man instinctively withdrew his hand.
4. Instinctively the man withdrew his hand. 
5. In pain, the monk drew back his hand and the scorpion went flying, back into the river. 
6. He went back to washing his bowl and again the scorpion fell in.
7. [alternate:] He went back to washing the bowl when he noticed the scorpion fall into the water again.

1. When the Monk realized what happened, he went back into the water and picked up the Scorpion once again. But just as the Monk was about to set the Scorpion down, he was again stung on the hand by it. This scene repeated several times until the Monk finally saved the Scorpion.
2. -and reached back in. This time he got his grip a little firmer, but still dropped the Scorpion when he was stung. He kept reaching in, as his friend looked on in confusion.
3. A moment later, he got back his balance and again lay down on the roots to rescue the scorpion. This time the scorpion stung him well and truly. The old man lay there in agony, his hand bloodied and swollen.
4. A minute later, after he had regained his balance, he stretched himself out again on the roots to save the scorpion. This time the scorpion stung him so badly with its poisonous tail that his hand became swollen and bloody and his face contorted with pain.
5. As soon as the monk regained his composure, he again lifted him out of the water, this time with a stronger grip, out of the water. Again, before he could set the scorpion down, the creature stung him. This drama lasted for several minutes.
6. The monk saved the scorpion and was again stung. 

1. A little boy was playing by the stream when he witnessed this whole incident. Being confused, he asked the Monk, “Excuse me. Why do you keep trying to save that Scorpion? It stings you every time you try to rescue it.”
2. After dozens of attempts, the other monk spoke up saying “Brother, why do you keep trying to save that scorpion? It stings you every time you come near it.
3. A traveler who was passing by saw the whole incident happen. He shouted, “What’s wrong with you? Only a fool or madman would risk his life trying to save that evil, vicious creature! Do you realize you could have died trying to save that scorpion?”
4. At that moment, a passerby saw the old man stretched out on the roots struggling with the scorpion and shouted: "Hey, stupid old man, what's wrong with you? Only a fool would risk his life for the sake of an ugly, evil creature. Don't you know you could kill yourself trying to save that ungrateful scorpion?"
5. The other monk was observing this, wherein the monk would carefully and gingerly lift the creature out of the water to yet again fling it back in the water again, while at the same time also convulsing from the pain unleashed by each fresh sting. Eventually, unable to remain quiet the observing monk said to the other one, “Brother, why do you keep trying to save the scorpion? It stings you every time you come near it.”
6. The other monk asked him, "Friend, why do you continue to save the scorpion when you know it's nature is to sting?"

1. The Monk replied, “Dear boy, just as it is the water’s nature to make me wet, so it is the nature of the Scorpion to sting. And just as it is the Scorpion’s nature to sting, it is my nature to save.”
2. The monk paused before reaching in again and smiled. As another sting bit into his hand, he took a fallen leaf from the ground and pulled the scorpion out to safety. He finally said: “Because it is his nature to sting, and my nature to save. Don’t forget brother, soon either I’ll stop feeling the pain of the sting and he will be saved, or he will stop being afraid and be saved.’ Compassion cannot be stopped so easily.’
3. Still lying there, the old man turned his head to look at the traveler calmly. “Dear brother, it is the nature of the scorpion to sting. That does not mean I can change my nature, which is to save. ” The scorpion behaved true to its nature. So did the old man.
4. The old man turned his head. Looking into the stranger's eyes he said calmly, "My friend, just because it is the scorpion's nature to sting, that does not change my nature to save."
5. To this the monk replied: “My dear brother, the scorpion is not stinging me out of malice or evil intent. Just as it is the water’s nature to make me wet, so it is the scorpion’s nature to sting. He doesn’t understand that I am getting him to safety. Quite simply, there is a level of conscious comprehension greater than what his brain can accomplish. But, just as it is the scorpion’s nature to sting, so it is my nature to save him. Just as he is not leaving his nature, why should I leave my nature? My dharma is to help every creature– human or animal. Soon, I will stop feeling the pain of the sting and he will be saved, or he will stopped being afraid and be saved. Compassion cannot be stopped so easily.”
6. "Because," the monk replied, "to save it is my nature."

It is perhaps not inappropriate to quote Geico at this point: 

"It's what ya do."

It's what I try to do, as a bus driver, and it makes my days a lot easier. If Eastern philosophy isn't your thing, that's okay. We can quote everyone's favorite multinational conglomerate for equal inspiration: Ya "just do it." Maybe that scorpion will love you, or maybe he'll try to get under your skin, or perhaps you'll bring out the non-stinger in him over time... but you're doing you, in the best way. 

Doesn't that feel good?

----

This lil' grab bag of translations comes from all over the internet– here, here, here, here, here, here, and here. I first heard the story in spoken form, and its historical origins are uncertain. But we have the story.

If you’ve watched this already there’s no need to rewatch, but I’d be remiss not to share a few words on the change. Diane Duthweiler, Tim Pearson and the good folks at The Seattle Channel were kind enough to update my recent interview segment with introductory language more accurate to our conversations. 

In the course of being interviewed, these things can happen. You get misquoted, and you don’t really expect them to bend over backwards to do something about it– they’re busy, their bosses are busy, and the public has moved on to something else by now, already way past whatever little kerfuffle of words was bothering you so. If the misquote represents you in a manner that damages your relationships with colleagues or friends and family, well, you end up paying the price, and no one besides.

But that didn’t happen here. For me the real star of this segment isn’t me, but Diane. Journalism was once a word referring not simply to a profession but an ethos: the principled consideration of the type of news pursued, how it was conveyed to the public and when, the protection of sources... these responsibilities and others were recognized as such, and executed with a certain duty and class.

Diane and co. didn’t have to go to the trouble of hearing my concern, proactively reach out to me, consult with myself, her associates and boss, pull the piece, rerecord dialogue and repost the segment. She didn’t have to, but she did. And it's not like she didn't have anything else to do!  It speaks to her integrity not simply as a journalist, but as a human. She’s the wonderful newscaster I thought she was, and more. It’s a powerful tool to wield, television, and she does so with aplomb. I couldn’t be more grateful.

In short: Thank you, Diane. You are just too cool for school.

For everyone else: I got interviewed on The Seattle Channel! Check it out!

“Merry Christmas, happy holidays, all that good stuff," I call out to my ragtag crew. We are the nighttime 7 and we’ve just boarded the crowd from NightWatch, the shelter dispersal program on the east edge of Vietnamtown.

It's a good group, these guys.

They may not look it, shuffling aboard at their own pace, perfumed with the halo of residue-stiffened layers and aged by the clash of hope and time– but they are. The rank-and-file wage earners are long since in bed by now, and I’ve driven home the swing shift people already; we’re the leftovers, keeping time because someone’s got to, visible now because there’s no one else around. My bus, humming with activity on an otherwise desolate street, feels simultaneously like the forgotten corner of a dying democracy… and the hard leading edge of contemporary urban existence, immediate, vivacious, absolute. No need to be anywhere else.

NightWatch's structure demands a level of planning and responsibility that weeds out certain attitudes. You have to procure a ticket at an office downtown during the day, figure out how to get from there to the NightWatch building and then do so when it opens in the evening, retain the previously procured ticket to gain entrance, ask for and receive another ticket guaranteeing you a bed in an area shelter, which you then commute to, using a third bus ticket they'll have given you. It's complicated. The resulting group who uses the service has the mental health and aptitude to take on the task.

I'm not expecting much in the way of a response to my holiday well wishes, but they double down on appreciative whoops and hollers. They're surprised by my enthusiasm, and the other passengers are in turn surprised by theirs.

"Hopefully they had an extra good meal at NightWatch tonight," I say to the fellow nearest me. It's Christmas Eve.

Kevin, the erudite street denizen you know from this earlier post, stands near his repurposed stroller-as-wheelbarrow and asks politely, through the grit and grime of his appearance, “and how are you, good sir?”
“Really well,” I reply. “I’m happy to be here. I'm glad NightWatch was still open today for you fine folks.”

Sometimes I wonder if people know I’m being serious. Do they think I’m being sarcastic? When you’re already at the level of complete honesty, you have no further recourse for authenticity. You’re already being as genuine as possible. You can do things like paraphrase yourself or make hand gestures, but you really just have to trust that they’ll somehow read your legitimacy. I said what I said, realizing I might have sounded awfully snarky, but trusted their ability to read me.

At that moment a fellow with a cap elbowed forward with a freewheeling grin. Could’ve been a truck driver, construction, utility and electrical: you know the type. The American man too quickly aged by his work, the hands-on service jobs that wear their employees like a cloak, hard hats and stubble and cold beer, joints that ache in the night. How does he smile through it all? How much of me is him, and will I be able to grin as well?

“Hey,” he said. “I love what you’re doing.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re doing the Kandinsky Method.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, it's a new thing in psychology. Where you're like not quite cheesy, but still hella cool at the same time…”
“Like, sincere?” 
“Hell yeah, sincere! Like almost corny, but just straight up, and it ends up being highly connectible and super badass. Kandinsky, he was this painter,” 
“Yeah, the abstract guy! I’ma have to check this guy out!”
“You really should, it's really gangster!”

I breathed a sigh of relief. This guy didn’t just get me, he got it. The whole thing. Kind truthfulness so unconcerned with appearances it paradoxically ends up becoming hugely attractive.  

As he retreated to join his friends, Kevin piped up: “too bad you don't get credits, or a certificate! It's like a class out here.” 
“You know, I went to university, but I learn more out here. It's just so much bigger out here.”
“Well, think about it. In a classroom you have what, maybe forty-one, forty-two people tops. Including the teacher.”
“And they're probably from comparable backgrounds,”
“Whereas out here you've got hundreds. Different hundreds, every day!”
“Thousands, I'd say! From all walks of life. It's just incalculable.” 

It's a learning experience, certainly, but it's self-directed to a nigh overwhelming degree. When the stimuli are this varied and all encompassing, you only see what you look for. You can pay as much or as little attention to whatever you want, and walk away with lessons the diametric opposite of your colleague who's exposed to the same.

“And, you get paid!” Kevin was saying.

Which I'm thankful for. But that's not the best part of all this. The best part of all this is getting to spend time out here with the folks and build something positive, take away something truthful to fold up in my pocket and save for later, that I might remember all that was good on the eastern outskirts of downtown, when people are deploring the less fortunate.

I took the green light, chuckling to myself. “Highly connectible and super badass.” “Really gangster.” Wassily Kandinsky, don’t roll over in your 1944 Neuilly sur-Seine grave! We get your general idea. Look past the verbiage!