The clock had just struck midnight, and a young man stood up front. He was dressed like me at home on a Sunday morning: comfy shorts, unfussy hair, white print tee with a logo from long ago. 

We forget that college students, especially freshman, may not have much experience talking to strangers. They may be coming from towns smaller than this one, or have only interacted with adults in easy, predetermined modes, like teachers and parents. If you haven't worked a summer job (especially a customer service gig), entering college can be bewildering, like high school without the training wheels. Let's not take them to task for their adorable awkwardness or staggering lack of street smarts; I want to be welcoming to them out here in the world. How else will they grow to feel comfortable?

I amiably engaged him, and he amiably responded. 

"Are you going to Broadway?" I asked.
"Naw, I'm going down by Schmitz hall."
"Oh just right there, perfect!"
"Yeah, I'm going to Odes, time to study."
"Tight. Man, I've spent so many hours in there, up all night getting ready for finals, up editing something,"
"Yeah, sometimes…" 
"Gotta do watcha gotta do, you know,"
"Yeah," he said. "I mean you could kick it with your friends for a while, but only for so long."

He was unwittingly elucidating a point from Tom Wolfe's I am Charlotte Simmons. I furthered it: "Yeah, that's the thing, everybody likes to talk about how they go party, they go out, but what all of them are also doing, is hitting the books. They don't say they're doing it, but they are. 'Cause that's the only way to get anywhere!"
"Exactly, it's the only way!"
"You just gotta do it. No one says they do it, but you better believe they do it."
"Yeah somebody told me there's three things. Social life, good grades, and personal needs. And you gotta sacrifice two, or, you gotta sacrifice one in order,"
"You can only have two?"
"Yeah, you can only have two at a time."
"You know, that's so true, because even now, after school, I have to choose between either time with friends, or time alone. I can never have both."
"Yeah! God bless!"

And with that, he was bounding off toward Odergaard Research to get it done. My circumstances these days are similar; you know from recent posts I'm currently in a "Hermit Mode" of sorts, trying to establish headway on a few major art projects. The social life, blog, and personal needs are taking a temporary back seat as I plow ahead on film work, blog book, and advanced Korean study. I like his rule; maybe mine is that I can only have three things in my life simultaneously, not six. I look forward to a time in the near future when I can return to more regularly sharing the world of the road and all its revealing, delicate, sharp-edged beauty with you. 

For now, check in soon for a humorous breakdown of what I've been focusing on (or to use the more accurate term, pulling my hair out–) of late! Stay tuned!

"A nice dress shirt," Leroy said. "And jeans."

I looked at him over the top of my glasses. The Skeptical Dad look.

"Jeans? Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"Khakis, my friend!"

Okay, I'll admit it. I was being a Dad. Sorry, Leroy. Bear with me here.

He was going in for a business meeting the next day. A local organization trying to figure out why people of color don't frequent their business had enlisted Leroy for his perspective. Would I wear jeans to such an event? Never. It's the European in me that wears dress shoes all the time, the Asian in me that wears socks indoors, and the Nathan in me that can't bear to wear sweatpants to the airport, or casual wear to a business meeting. But then again, he's Leroy, not Nathan. I should give him the agency to make his own choices. And, I wanted to hear his perspective.

I said, "khakis? Or jeans?"
"Well, like we was talking about, I like being comfortable. But I see what you're saying."
I had an alternative idea, and started to chuckle. "Well, you could go the opposite extreme, and just do the full on, most exaggerated stereotype of… check it out. Sagging pants with no underwear, a black hoodie two sizes too big,"

I imagine he was thinking I'd say something actually reasonable, and my unexpected ridiculousness caught him by surprise. He was dying. "No underwear!?!"
"Basketball shoes with the laces untied,"
"Yup! Or one tied and the other one untied, sagging pants and a wife-beater–"
"Exactly. Maybe put the brass knuckles down on the table."
"And make sure it says biiitch on it."

We were both getting carried away laughing. I said, "perfect. I love it. 'Cause they're not gonna say anything. They're gonna think you're being… 'authentic!'"
"Ha!"
"Maybe bring a holster, but no gun. And be like, you know, 'I decided to leave the gun at home. I really thought about you guys.'"
"Oh my God!!" He was falling over. We both were. After the laughter subsided, he responded to the seed of my original query.

He said, "really though, the reason I like to wear hoodies and headphones and jeans and stuff, the reason is because, when I dress like that, I can sense that the people around me are thinking I'm a danger."
"Gosh. Okay."
"But when I then behave as I do, you know, nicely, it blows them away."
"You know, okay. I see what you're saying. It's more constructive, what you're doing, doing it this way. Because if you wore a three-piece suit, and you were nice to people, that wouldn't be surprising to anybody. This way, you're expanding their minds. So every time they see some other guy in a hoodie,"
"Yeah."
"They'll know, they'll have a wider experience of possible behaviors to expect from that person."
"Exactly."
"I love it."

Smart man, that Leroy. 

---

More with Leroy: by now you've probably read the Seattle Times article he and I are featured in, or watched the Fresh Ground Stories video detailing where I expound to a local audience on how we met; here too are a few times where he pops up in the blog, regarding homeless laziness, my birthday party, status in ghettos, Rainier Valley, connecting with people, the lineage of American racism, and some thoughts of mine as shared by Rex Hohlbein of Facing Homelessness, who helped Leroy during his first days in Seattle.

Also one which only mentions him tangentially, but which I want to re-share, in celebration of my older friends. 

[This story is now available in my new book.]

Hello, lovelies. 

It's October. My posts here will be intermittent for next six weeks, and I want to share why. I'm throwing my weight behind: redeveloping my book proposal for turning this blog of ours (meaning me and you, reader, since you keep the whole enterprise alive by coming here to enjoy the stories) into a book; developing two new screenplays; scanning and printing negatives at Evergreen College's color darkroom, the only public-access color darkroom in the United States(!!); and studying fifth-level Korean at City University. 

And driving the bus. 

The stories keep coming in, and I have so many to share with you, but much of the above is time-sensitive. I'll still be posting stories, so stop in when you like, or take a peek into the (now seriously voluminous!) archives. But new material might only be weekly for several weeks. I wanted to let you know why– not due to any flagging interest of mine, and ceeeeerrtainly not due to lack of material out here on the street. It's a zoo out here, as it ever was, with little diamond glints of positivity abounding. There's so much I can't wait to share with you. 

It's the great conundrum. I really want to turn the blog into a book... but the only way to find time do that is to take a break from the blog! 

My head's been wrapped up in some pretty heady stuff lately, as you can glean from the post below, and from another big one I'm about to drop, regarding a passenger I've been wrestling with how to think about for months. The complexities of the street range far and wide, as do the ways of considering them.

Meanwhile though, there's also just some guys who are doin' okay, capably making it through another day and feeling all right about it. And that's as much a part of life as anything else. Like this bald-headed fellow in his forties now, gravel-flecked voice and unassuming blue sweatshirt, manly but companionable. He'd been watching me work for most of the ride, and only now spoke up.

"Day's pretty rainy, huh? Haven't seen days like this in a minute, huh?"
"Oh my gosh! Like I forgot what rain looked like, it's been so long!"
"Yuuuup!"
"Thought this place was California!"
"I like it like this though! Instead of it's hot all the time."
"Yup. Easier to fall asleep, when it's not hot."
"Yup yup I hear you, exactly."

We went on about the weather for a while. I'll spare you the play-by-play: how falling sleep when it's cold can also be trying, how many blankets we use to keep warm, the impact of living on lower or upper levels…. 

What are people really talking about when they talk about the weather?

I'd argue it's the same thing they're intimating when they quickly breathe, "how's it goin'." Sounds almost like they're asking how your day is. Sometimes that's true, but more often they're sharing something else, something different, which I find just as comforting.

They're telling you they acknowledge and respect you. They're recognizing you with a sense of togetherness. We're on an equal plane here. This is a safe interaction. We are fellow human beings, sharing time and space, and I want to take a moment to recognize that. It isn't that weather is so scintillating a topic we simply have to discuss it with complete strangers. The talk of clouds and rain, the inquiry after your well-being– it's a shorthand for something altogether more meaningful. I respect you. The number of times I've defused a situation on a bus by simply asking how someone is doing… real communication is happening there, in what we may once have called wasted air. Confucius wrote that pleasantries don't make us better people, but they keep us at the good quality we're already at. Respect and acknowledgment. That's what we were telling each other, as I explained about using five blankets in the winter.

"I got a job actually," he was saying, "where they're cool people, this place called Labor Works, it's a temporary–"
"Yeah yeah, up there on,"
"They have it in uh, they have it in Lynnwood, Renton,"
"Yeah,"
"Sea-Tac,"
"Dude, that's a great thing for the people."
"Y'it is! Labor Works. I can go up there get paid like the same day, the next day,"
"Isn't that awesome?"
"It is awesome, and they put it on like a debit card fo' you. The only thing is as long as I don't mess up, like they say don't do drugs and stuff,"
"Right. You seem to have it under control."
"Yeah I have it all under control, but the thing is as long as I keep comin', to work you know, I pretty much got me a job!"

There was a humble pride in his tone, with a hint of self-surprise. The journey of our short conversation had reminded him he'd made it here from somewhere different. And that was worth something. 

"That's beautiful, man! You got it goin' on!"
"I do got it goin' on. Alright thank you!"

I was recently telling a supervisor friend about an unpleasant incident. I don't talk often about unpleasant incidents, for reasons outlined elsewhere, but they happen. No matter how nice you are, there will be a couple days out of the year that are exceptionally challenging, and this incident was one of them.

Three months after the fact, my colleague listened, and as she listened, she grew appalled. She was visibly upset, overwhelmed with concern for me and flabbergasted such an event could transpire. What was most appalling wasn't the actions of the customer, but the lack of response on the part of Metro and King County Sheriffs, which I have to admit was as much my fault as theirs. 

[The rest of this story is available in my new book!]