A twenty-something couple approaches the front, late at night at Othello Street. They're about to deboard.
"Um," says the girl. "Hey, can we ask you a,"
"Are you gonna ask how old I am? Every one asks that."
"Haha, well, you do look really young. No, we wanted to ask, how are you so happy all the time? 'Cause every time we get on you're always in such a,"
"I don't know! That's a great question, I,"
"-Sure you don't need a pee test?" the boy asks.
Cackles of laughter all around.

"I don't know what it is," I continue. "'Cause I've thought about that a lot, you know. A lot of people ask me, but I feel like if I was to discover what it was, it would vanish, like a whisper, you know? Like it's some magic secret thing and it would go out like a candle."
"I got choo. Yeah."
"I think it's just, i really like the people, being nice to the people, something... they give me energy. The people give me energy."
"That's so great."
"I love being nice to the people."
"That's great," she says. "Especially on this route, which is not always, uh,"
"Oh, it's an adventure! And I looooove it!"

We laughed in each other's gleaming faces, sharing in the buzz of my euphoria. They could see I meant my words. I didn't make clear enough in the post below that I happen to really like these people. As I recently told another operator, I choose to drive the 7, the 358 and others not because they're the most dangerous routes, or the "most coolest," but because the passengers are the folks I genuinely most want to spend time with when I'm at work. 

I don't mean to ignore that some of them, like you and I, make ugly and terrible decisions, but here more than elsewhere I feel loved. Gestures of kindness echo with greater resonance. I learn from them, about compassion, appreciation, perspective, actions and consequences. Lessons are stronger at the leading edge of life, on ground level, where things are played out in a high key. These two instinctively got all this, without my having to mention it, let alone try to explain it. They knew, as I continued by describing the 7 as "freaking awesome," that the silliness in my exuberance was borne of something deeply rooted, something they knew the language of too. Who besides us actually likes this stuff, being out here in this crazy maelstrom, riding high on the everlasting wave?

Note: the links at right have been revamped, with a few more easily accessible popular stories which longtime readers will recognize (share them with your friends!), as well as consolidated links to some of the film reviews, and the explanatory trolley post. 

Rainier and Othello is not an inviting place. You know the landscape: one and two story buildings, mostly residential, with buckling and otherwise eroded and collapsing sidewalks. There's the auto parts store, with the owner standing just inside the doorway with his hands on his hips, shaking his head from who knows how many robberies; the Western Union exchange across the way; a Mexican restaurant on the southeast block, seemingly closed more often than open. Iron bars cover the windows of all these establishments and the homes behind them. 

Then we have the famous Valero Gas Station (yes, capitalization is necessary), dominating the landscape on the southwest corner. In the same way the Morrison Hotel downtown isn't the Morrison without an ambulance parked out front, so too is the Valero Gas Station not the Valero without a crowd of guys and gals loitering in, on and around. There are men who more or less live here, dealing, fighting, drinking, and shooting their way through life in a manner far riskier than necessary. Tricked-out classic Oldsmobiles and American muscle cars roar into the lot, throaty and gleaming and oversized, trading people or goods with dilapidated Camrys and unwashed, decade-old Lexuses. Occasionally the folks residing will get on the bus, but generally most don't, preferring to finish their beer or light another joint, wait for a delivery, or continue a conversation or argument. The fluorescents of the gas station behind only dimly illuminate them as silhouettes in the darkened bus shelter, looming and receding in size, expansive figures in puffy jackets and sagging jeans, shuffling amongst a patina of litter their own in the making.

There are also regular working-class folk who use this stop to go home, and they leave the zone quickly, keeping their head down and walking in a path determined, away from this mass of unpredictability. There's a regular lady who asks to be let off thirty feet past the bus stop, and that short distance can be the difference between life and something ugly. These are places where a little bit of help can be significant.

Leroy was on the bus one evening, out for a ride, just to talk. A thought occurred to me as we pulled up to the great Valero.
"Hey, you wanna know something kinda crazy?"
"Wha's that?"
"So you see this bus stop right here, how it always looks really, super sketch."
"It looks fuckin' terrible."
"Yeah, every time we come through here,"
"It looks fuckin' awful."
"It reminds me of being in South Central."
"I know, it's like Philly."
"It looks like a disaster."
"Yeah."
"And I used to drive up to that stop feelin' kinda apprehensive, a little bit nervous, you know?"
"Oh yeah!"
"But, the crazy thing is, and I just realized this recently. So I've been driving number 7 through here since 2009. But check this out. The crazy thing is, man, in all that time, I've never once had a single problem at this intersection."
"You serious?"
"Yeah, can you believe that? Look at this place. The whole time, every time I've ever rolled through here, never had a single problem with any of these dudes. It always, everything always just works out. They get on, I say hey. Can you believe that?"
"Uh. No!"
"I know, it's amazing!"
"Wow! Damn. Well, that's cool!"
"So, yeah. Go figure!"

I don't think it's possible to overstate how powerful kindness is. In a phrase or evanescent gesture you send so many messages– esteem, consideration, tolerance, appreciation, and the egalitarian, loving belief that we both have a place here, despite our significant differences... I've heard tell of some of the things that happen at this intersection, and seen their aftermath. 

But somehow, this 7 has so far averted the disasters here. I greet them all as if they're friends of mine, and since I've been part of the neighborhood for so long, many of us really are friends, and they jump on happy to see me. The folks treat me as they are treated, and as the days turn to years we accumulate our mutual good works, dignity seeping through the cracks as grains of sand, something besides weeds buckling through that asphalt, our well-wishes and roundhouse waves building to a new kind of normal.

Note: follow-up to this post in partial response to the comments below, here.

I pause at inbound Henderson, waiting for an indecisive runner. Why am I irritated? What is this rushing stress which bubbles inside of me on rare occasions, rearing its head like a stranger within? Something to work on.

"How's it goin'," I ask him as he pauses outside the front doors, staring into the middle distance. He decides to step aboard, a white fellow in middle age, thin and very cold, underdressed on this February night. His bowl-cut hairdo, parted in the middle, has the precision of a machine.

"Hey," he asks. "Are you going towards Garfield?"
"Yeah, I am, yeah. Come on in. How you doin' tonight?" Sometimes when I'm feeling less than stellar I'll force myself to reach out further, asking about people's days or complimenting their hats. You can use the people to bring you back up, get yourself out of your head.

"Oh, not so good," he responds with a companionable sigh.
"I'm sorry to hear it. I appreciate the truthful answer, but I'm sorry to hear."
"Well, it is what it is. We're here."
"And that's a good thing. We're alive, we've got our arms and legs,"
"Hey, there you go,"
"Lot to be thankful for." Reminding myself as much as anything else.
"You got that right. Hey, you go up towards South Edmunds?"

We sort out the geography. I can tell he knows the terrain, but perhaps hasn't been out here for a while. He asks how my night is going, and I mention how much I love driving the 7. "It's a favorite of mine."
"How come?"
"It stays interesting out here. High energy, a lot going on, a lot of color,"
"Man, you're positive."
I laugh. He notes that he most recently saw me on the 49, and I mention how the two routes are interconnected at nighttime. 
"Yeah," he says, "my girlfriend and I, we were together about ten years,"
"Oh wow,"
"Yeah, she lived at the end of the 49 line, and I lived halfway down the 7 line."
"Oh, excellent. That sounds like a pretty perfect setup."
"Yeah, it was a perfect setup. She was great."

He pauses.

"You know, she actually ended up killing herself."
"Whoaaaa. Oh, no. Oh, no." Suicide guts me on a level other violence doesn't come close to. 
"Yeah. Yeah."
"Oh." A heavy exhalation of air, the fitful attempt to release a burden.
"And it was totally unexpected, she was a positive person. She just,"
"Oh, my goodness."
"She was just, sometimes she would get real down."
"Was it like a clinical depression thing?"
"No, it was more of a bipolar type thing. She would have these moods, I don't know. She had a head injury way back, and ever since that,"
"Okay,"
"Yeah, it affected her mood, affected everything,"
"Like a chemical imbalance,"
"Yeah. She did it on a Monday, man." Silence. "She knew I was always busy running around on Mondays, and she chose a Monday when I was just payin' some bills."

"Oh, my goodness. That's heavy. That's, wow. Oh, man. Suicide gets to me pretty hard." I mention a couple of incidents which took place when I was a child, and he tells me similar events happened amongst his acquaintances as well.
"So yeah, it just gets to me. And the thing is, it's not really her, but that chemical imbalance, the injury,"
"Yeah, can't blame her."
"Can't blame her. It feels strange to say it, that she's gone."
"When' this happen?"
"Three months ago."
"Oh, wow. Oh, man." We drive in silence for a short bit. Here's Othello Street. Here's Frontenac, here's Graham.

Me again: "but you know, I'm really glad you guys got to have those ten years together."
"Oh yeah."
"I mean, that's huge. She's always gonna be part of your character,"
"Ooh yeah,"
"And that's good. Ten years, man. Longest relationship I ever had is three, so ten, my goodness, that's just beautiful. I admire that. You know, somebody said once, 'we're gonna lose everything we love in this life,'"
"Yeah, yeah." Nodding.
"'And all we can do is just figure out how to enjoy it while we have it.' That's the great magic trick to getting through all this, this life."
"Yeah. Yeah. Well, so, uh, hey, how've you been?"

We both laugh together, the pent-up sorrow belching out into something more familiar. We bring back the conversation, discussing such banalities as the number of round trips I have and how there's hardly anyone out tonight. We cling to the ladder rungs of the ordinary, speaking and sharing our way out of the depths, rising slowly, such that we might feel all of life's colors, and not just the thudding, aching blows.

The younger man puts in carefully counted change. He's just asked how much the bus costs around here. After I give him his transfer, he says in a pleasing accent, "Hey. I am trying to get to Everett?"
"Oh, I wish you had told me that before you paid, 'cause this transfer won't work on the Everett bus." I can see that for him, every coin counts. "I would've just had you pay the next driver. I'm sorry!"
"It's okay. It is my first day here! I come from Uganda, Africa!"
"Oh, wow! Welcome to Seattle!"
"Thank you! Can you let me know when it is time, I will sit up here so I know where to get off. I am just a little bit nervous, I don't know where anything is."
"That's okay, you just came across the ocean! This will be easy! You have already done much more difficult traveling! Seattle to Everett... you're not going to have any problem!"
He laughs, warm with relief and the glow of acceptance.