"Hey, wha's happening." That's me, greeting the OG's stepping on at Othello. The Valero gas station there is a 24-hour institution, a cultural fixture on Rainier, an landmark of commerce and questionable exchange as necessary to announce as Chase Bank and the Columbia Tower. It's never a question of whether there will be anyone at the zone, as there always are, even at 1am; it's a question of how many want to get on. Tonight we have a few takers. The last, a mixed African-American man with the wispy grey beard of a kung-fu master, stops and stares at me without responding to my greeting. Then, in a tone of incredulity, he says, "holy shit! Wha's goin on here? Ain't no way this is for real. I got to be checkin' for your license, 'cause ain't no way you old enough!" 

It's a song I've heard before, and I respond with the line about the learner's permit. But this version of the conversation feels amped up to eleven. Certainly it's the first time he's seen me, and his emotions feel new.

Staring at me from the chat seat, thinking it out for a second: "and I know I ain't the first to say that shit either. But damn!" Daayumn. "You look younger than my youngest!"
"It's all for real, I promise! All on the level,"
"Ain't no fuckin way!" His tone is one who's witnessing something too good to be true, like he hesitates to believe. "I got a nephew who's eleven, and you dont look a day... man, where the camera crew at, 'cause I know this shit is a setup! People must be sayin' this shit to you all the time!"
"At least a couple times a day," I say, realizing it happens way more often than that.
"I'm surprised it ain't all day!"
"I guess it's about once a trip...."
"I'm 'bout to pull out some Doogie Howser shit, you know that, right?"
"Oh, I do!" 
"How they HIRE you, bro?"

We're starting to come down off the initial high, and glimmers of reality enter the conversation–
"I remember thinkin', during the interview, there ain't no way they gonna hire me, 'cause I dont look like any of the other bus drivers! But they did!"
"Man, but man, you got a, honestly, you got a good thing– and hold up, you only half Asian, right?"
"Wow, you know me! Yeah, exactly!"
"Hey, it's the genes. Black don't... hold up." He pauses, then pronounces, "BLACK DON'T CRACK, BUT ASIAN AIN'T PLAYIN'." Authoritatively: "That's my new sayin'. I'm a roll with that. Black don't crack, but Asian ain't playin'. I knew a half-white guy once and he well, he weren't playin' cuz he wasn't Asian, but he definitely cracked. But you, holy shit, you got a double dose o' the good stuff...." 
"Guess we got the genes,"
"I know you been down to the Caribbean, 'cause that's where they say the Fountain of Youth is. You really got that shit. I know some white women who would KILL you."
"I'm just tryin' to grow up and be like you guys!" Referring to him and one remaining passenger, an older black man who desperately wants to go Auto Zone. "I know that's right," Auto Zone says. I say something about how I love the job, that I started seven years ago but I still–"
"The– what? Am I believin' in what I just heard? Do mah ears deceive me? Did I just hear you say–"
The old guy interrupts with, "how long you been doin' the 7?"
"On and off since '09."

Our friend turns to the older gent. "Man, this guy got it goin' on. You'll be doin' somethin' else before long. I see you got some serious shit together. And man, when you turn sixty, dude, everyone gon' think you thirty."

I downplay his praise, and he downplays my modesty. I never thought about mortality so much until I started this job.

"Sometimes I wonder it'll happen overnight, I'll wake up look in the mirror have a bunch of grey hairs."
"Fuck that. You're good. How do you DO it? What the hell do you eat?"
"I'm just tryin to hit them fruits and vegetables!"
"No man, you be hittin' some BLACK shit, seriously...."
 
The older gentleman gets off, absolutely reeking of marijuana, and our friend good-naturedly ribs him for it: "Damn, I know where to come for the good shit. I know you got the good stuff, 'cause ain't nobody else left on the bus. And I know it ain't the muhfuggin' bus driver!"

Alone on the bus, he and I continue chatting as we go up the Prentice loop at the end of the route. His word choice is very street, but his enunciation and general air (plus that refined goatee) connote a formal education and more importantly, a wisdom gained from multiple fronts of life. I feel comfortable speaking what's on my mind.
"I had two fights today."
"Only two?" he says.
"See, you got a good attitude!"
"How did that, I mean how did it affect the running of your bus?"
"You know, it was okay. Everybody else was heeeeellla nice, and I think they appreciated, uh, me tryin' to level everything out, balance out the situation, you know?"
"Aw yeah, people appreciate that no doubt. You tryna keep it movin'. Motherfuckers out here don't like to put up with that bullshit. I smoke my weed, maybe drink a little too much sometimes, but I don't interefere with the commerce, you know? And dude, dudes out here got your back. For a dude like you, I'll fuck up anybody, man. I got your back. Anybody tries ackin some stupid shit, I be right there." Quite a few other brothers have told me this before, and there have been times when they have followed through with aplomb. "I'll give 'em the double elbow, send 'em flyin through the window for you if you need it. But we gotta be workin' in concert. You gotta have that door open just the right second–"
"Precision timing–"
"Ezzactly. Send 'em flyin' out there, close the doors we be movin' right on away, we gone, ain't nobody gettin on the back doors,"

He's carried away in his daydream, and continues to explain hypothetical details. I'm thinking about how I like his use of the phrase "in concert." Not really the parlance one hears in fictional ghetto dialogue. Out loud I say, "you know what I like about the 7 is, is that respect goes a loooong way out here."
"Oooh yeah. And a long time." 
"People remember stuff."
"My Uncle was for thirty years a Metro driver,"
"Oh, nice!"
"Well, but he was an asshole."
"Oh."
"And that shit just really don't work out here."

I think I like the 7 in part because it forces discipline. It's like balancing on a knife edge. My Father and I were recently discussing a certain 554 driver's unconscionable behavior toward a passenger, and we agreed that with his attitude he wouldn't last a second on the 7. The tolerance level for condescension and judgment out here is extraordinarily low. But if I'm patient and generous and capable, the rewards are tremendous. The gratitude is palpable. 

"Birthday on the 25th," Isaac is saying, referring to himself. Isaac is in a work-release program at Burger King, and sometimes he pays me with food instead of fare. Why can't it be like that all the time?
"Twenty-fifth a coupla days ago, or next–"
"Next month, August. And my daughter turnin' sixteen on the 24th of August."
"Whoa, wow! Excellent. Sixteen. She'll be drivin' soon."
"Yup."
"She live in the area?"

We talk a bit more. I mention my birthday being in March, and the lively Filipino woman behind us inquires further: "March what?"
"The twelfth!"
"Ooohhhh! My nephew, it's the 13th! And then my daughter-in-law, March 17th! Plus two others in my family, I'm surrounded by fishes!"
"That's good, right?"
"Well, my nephew, I told him if he turned out like the others I'd kill him with my bare hands!" 
She's joking, of course. I think.
"Oh my goodness!" 
"He turned out well. He's a good provider. Maybe too good."
"I don't have a family," I muse aloud. "Maybe one day."
"Oh why not?" asks the Filipino lady. She's very interested.

Oh dear, I think. Why did I say that? No time to get into it all. I give them the short answer: "I haven't found the right young lady yet!"
"That's because you work at night!" 
A working-class Latino man sitting further back, halfway down, is listening and smiling. Filipino lady and I rib each other good-naturedly as she continues holding forth: "How can you expect to find a girl when you work at night? Of course you're single! Even a nice cute handsome guy like you–"
"But I like driving at night!" This gets a rich smile from the listening Latino man, who looks to work odd hours himself. Filipino lady's not having it, though–
"Then you need to meet a nice girl who works at a hospital! That's what you need to do. I know them. All you have to do is go to Virginia Mason. Seventh Floor."
"Oh, is that right? Is that where all the ladies are hiding?"
"I know everything."
"That's excellent!"
"I'm telling you, Virginia Mason, there's plenty of wonderful nurses, very bright,"
"Up on the seventh floor, you said?"
"The seventh floor."
"Well, I guess if I ever wanted to meet someone, now I know where to go... the seventh floor?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Not the sixth floor?"
"I'm serious! You have no excuse now! I'm the matchmaker! I know where all the girls are. I have to look out for my grandsons when they come of age!"
"My parents will have you to thank if they have grandchildren!"
"Or at you know, Fourth and Seneca? I know where all the young women go–"
"Fourth and Seneca?? What's at Fourth and Seneca?"
"I'm telling you, I know these things. Hey. Isn't this weekend the big, the big you know, the fair,"
"Seafair?"
"Yeah, Seafair. So many women go to that. Everyone goes. All you have to do is go. What are you doing this weekend?"

Enthusiastically: "Working!"

Of course! Everyone– she, me, Isaac, the listening guy, burst out laughing. But I really am happy to be here. I enjoy hearing her silliness. In truth, I didn't say what would have ended our pleasant conversation– I love driving at night. I do the things I like to do, and trust in the universe to provide. It's worked out so far.

I'm helping a young black American family with the wheelchair seat at Fifth and Jackson. He's carrying laundry in tattered oversized Target plastic shopping bags. She's got her baby in one arm and a stroller in the other. I get out of the seat and make room for them, lifting up a chair or two in the front area. They're my buddies. I'm used to such textures on the 7, of life lived check to check, dirty clothes and smiles, relaxed standards for rules and language– it's a vernacular one gets comfortable with, but from the outside I imagine it can seem pretty uninviting. As I walk back up a young Chinese man by the front doors asks if I go downtown. 

"We are downtown," I say. "Where downtown do you want to go?"
"Um. Uh." He motions for a young woman of thirty and her father to come over, at which point he vanishes.
"Come on in, come on in," I say to them in an impatient tone, thoughtlessly, hurrying them up. Why was I so concerned about making the light? What an unnecessary way to think!
"Hi," I say to her. "Where do you want to go?"

She and her father are Chinese too, very clean-cut. They're both crisply dressed, she in shades of cream, he in gray and blue, and they possess that distinctly Asian quality of demure, professional politeness. I'm reminded of my relatives. Not only are these two definitely not from around here, and lost on top of that, but they're clearly very much out of their depth on this bus and its distinctive milieu.

In a labored accent she asks, "do you go to 6th Street?"
"I go to 6th Avenue...where on 6th Avenue do you want?"
"Um, the Sheraton?"
"Come on in," I say in a friendlier voice, trying to mitigate my tone from earlier. "Do you know where on 6th Avenue that is?"
"It's on 6th avenue...."
"Do you have an address? It's a long street."
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"It's okay." 

She's stressed but quiet, looking it up on her phone. "It's so hard to take a cab here."
"Yes." I feel bad for rushing them– for how it makes them feel, but also for how it makes me feel. Out of character.
"I'm sorry," she says again as she waits for her phone. 
"Maig wun tshee," I reply. No problem.
"You speak Chinese!"
"Just a little!" Pause. "How is your day today?"
"It's fine. We are just lost."

We sort out where it is, and I tell them I'll let them know when we get there. Meanwhile, the bus fills up while emptying out, that glorious sensation you get on through-routes, where as you traverse downtown, there's a double load on the same bus: the crowd getting off from riding the 7, and the crowd getting on for the 49. A humming bustle of activity. I think about how they must be seeing all this, taking it in for the first time. This will live as part of their memory of Seattle. This crowd, and myself, represent Seattle for them right now. I should've been nicer when they got on, I'm thinking. We visited Seattle and were lost and uncomfortable, and the bus driver was in a hurry and didn't seem to want to help.... How boring. How predictable. I make a point of making it a good ride through town. Throw all your energy into it, and don't worry about having energy for later– that'll come of its own accord, compounded on the good time you're having now. Do it like there's nothing between you and death except this ride. Shouldn't I at least try to make this the best bus trip they'll ever have in Seattle?

I put an extra pizzazz into the announcements, letting the enthusiasm grow and build, greeting everyone with focus, waving big at the other drivers, feeding off their energetic responses. Leave the stress behind. There's more to you than that. We weave up Third Avenue, smooth, and I use the mic to keep people informed of the locations, the time, the turns, and underneath it all, my gratitude and enthusiasm at being here. Hyper-present. 

At 4th & Pike I stand up, blocking the incoming masses, getting their attention again– "So this'll be the one for you!"
"Oh, thank you," she says. "Let's go out the back," she motions to her father.
"Oh, come on up it's okay, I'll show you which way to go."

After explaining how to get to the Sheraton, I say, "welcome to Seattle!"
"Thank you!"
"Thank you! Tsai-chiyen!" Goodbye!
"Tsai-chiyen!"

Her demure smile expands richly, ebulliently, eyes lighting with recognition at hearing her native language. There she is. I miss the traffic light and am glad for it. A few more runners make the bus, and this is good. Let me flow with the people, not against them. I watch the pair cross the street, daughter and father. They're looking up now, in a direction I can't see, marveling at the city. No longer lost, they can pay attention to their surroundings in a different way. They tarry on their walk without a care, taking everything in, feeling comfortable now that they know where they're going. Acceptance. I tap the horn as I drive past. She looks over just in time to see my big wave.

They stand together and apart, in amiable silence. Looming off to the side, a benevolent spectre at the far end of the field, are the banner years, stenciled proudly on the side wall. Home of the Vikings, it reads, in a font from another time.

On the astroturf the players run and run again, combinations of yellow and orange ever circling, hot uniform colors against deep green, pushing that ball up the yard lines, pushing and following it, teenage boys moving in and out of focus. They rest with hands on hips during the corner kicks.

I'm watching from the sidewalk. The spectators, players, their families and the rest make up the half-full crowd, mostly here for each other, a low-stakes game early in the season. I feel transported, looking about at the vivid primary colors; everyone here is East African. The African-Americans and Asians walk by, uninterested. Clearly they don't know what they're missing. When I'm in countries new to me, it's the commonalities underneath the superficial differences which warm my heart. A friend once told me, "no matter who's in front of you, whatever emotional state they're in, you have felt the seed of that emotion also."

Today I'm drawn in by the atmosphere. They say French films are consistently good because they so ably capture and explore the commonplace, and it's the relaxed, ordinary-day ambience of this game which grabs me. Somebody else's normalcy- what could be more interesting? 

Fathers and their friends stand on the sidelines, dressed in kanzus or Ethiopian dashikis. Dad's wearing sunglasses, talking business on the phone, like you or me. Here's the security guard making his rounds, trying to be serious. Scattered respectful clapping from the audience. Players on the bench watch the field, tracking the ball with steady eyes. The bench has several risers, and the boys sprawl out on different levels, some sitting back on the ground, sharing time in comfortable, focused silence, speaking English when they feel like it. You get the sense of skill being casually celebrated, taken in stride, weeks of hard practice finding voice in that one block or kick, acknowledged by your peers with a respectful upward nod. The gesture is small, but means a lot.

Sideline chat builds and subsides till the whistle blows, marking the end of first half. The water bottles and phones come out, spit on the field, girlfriends and friends descending from the stands. Toddlers on the track, players practicing for fun, somebody jogging in place on the sidelines; little mini-worlds all over the field. Sounds carry further in the summertime. 

Dad is off the phone now. Several feet away, behind him, are two of his friends, slightly older.  He sees them and does a little victory dance, hands in the air and hips swinging, with some serious western-style booty-shaking to close it off. Really getting into it. In his traditional clothing and refined appearance this hedonistic display is totally unexpected. His friends laugh hard, one making a dismissive but affectionate hand wave, as in, "get outta here!"

Soon it's time to resume the game. The players come together for the huddle, breaking after a team shout containing multiple languages. They argue over an offsides call; they cheer for an exceptional kick; lighthearted grey clouds watch from overhead all the while. Somebody trips and falls. A player from the opposing team helps him up. There's a nod of thanks between the two, and they're casually moving on now, part of it all. The gesture is small, but it means a lot.

A Native man, older, moves up to the front as the crowd thins out.
"How's your day goin'?"
"Oh, great," he says as he plops down in the chat seat. "I saw the parade last night."
"Yeah? How was it?"
"It was beautiful. So much to look at, so much to see. I saw the people with their tricks and floats, the cops with their trick horses. People doin' their tricks. Fire, bowling pins."
"Uh-huh."

"But you know what I really saw, was I saw the people, watching the performers, and for a minute there, no matter what race, or color, or age, or background, they were all one people, watching together. Whether they were black, white, or native, we were one people." A wistful edge to his voice. Sounds right up my alley.
"I'm so glad you got to see that, and you put it very well. You describe it perfectly." I'm reminded of Norman Rockwell's later work, the socially conscious stuff art critics often forget he did. "I didnt get to see it myself, but I drove them home, and it was just as you say, everyone united in feelin' good, kids with balloons, you know."

"Yeah, I really love this city." Earlier he'd explained how he's new here, exploring, down from Alaska.  "My wife and I are thinking about moving here for a year. I want to explore all this city has to offer."
"Oh yeah do it! I love this place. the longer I'm here, the more I like it. I'm from California." The neighborhoods are so distinct from one another, I tell him enthusiastically. I talk about how Seattle seems to reveal itself in phases, layers peeling away to reveal people and places you didn't realize were always there. I remember doing a project at school on Rainier Valley, and none of the educated college hipsters in my class had ever even heard of the place, despite its prodigious size and its bustling labyrinth of ever-churning life. And they felt they were generally well-versed in knowing Seattle. I hope they learn of its treasures in time. There's more to the city than Capitol HIll and the U-District! 

"So this is sort of the main drag, and then over here is where you can catch the 44," I say as we arrive at 45th and the Ave. He'd been looking for a place to catch the 44 that was conducive to people-watching. The stops on 15th were "way too boring," and this seemed like a better bet. We shake hands. He is Glen. "Nathan, that's a nice name. What is that, Old Testament, or New?"
"I think Old." 
"Yeah, he was friends with who, King Solomon, right?"
"Yeah, his advisor, something..."
"Yeah. Well, I might see you later. How late are you out?"
"Midnight or so." 
"Be careful drivin' tonight." With a wink he adds, "some of these guys drive like they're from California!" 

Just a reminder that YOU, dear reader, are invited to my latest show in Georgetown! Did you miss the opening last month? Did you miss the other Georgetown show earlier this year, or the Blindfold show? No biggie! That's what this show is for! Come on down, and we'll chat up a storm! See you Thursday!

Details and directions here.

I pull up to the Third and Pine island stop, outside McDonalds. We're in the vortex, the nerve center. Every major city has an intersection like this, but few are as colorfully and ferociously egalitarian. Class and status groups rub shoulders an onion-skin hairsbreadth from each other, a melting pot bubbling high, just this side of boiling over.... You feel as if the intersection is so stuffed with humanity it can hardly contain all it carries on its stage. The scattered crowds jaywalk with aplomb, and somehow this is oddly appropriate: isn't this after all the human organism unrestrained, unfettered, a swimming morass of stories and lives, and how could all that be held back by something as artless as a colored light? 

You have the commuters, dressed for the office, the market, or outdoor labor, adding a sense of purpose to the undulating horde. Tourists alongside amble and sashay, stargazing in their fanny packs and visors, short-sleeved eddies in a stream of locals. Canvassers fight to get a word in edgewise, using friendliness or guilt; thumpers and witnesses vie for attention, preaching their brand of judgment. Figures on the ground all the while, with scraps and guarded eyes, they were like you once. 

The police presence highlights the more explicitly nefarious chicanery, but happening simultaneously are more discreet shenanigans– look for the high-class call girls, once an hour or every two hours, passing through the crowd to that elegant side doorway you've never noticed before, each time with a new client. 

Right over here, where we are, is the infamous southeast corner. It's a 24-hour institution, the fellows who hang around. Some aren't even interested in drugs, but ah yes, some so definitely are. Supplies and demand wax and wane continuously all day, with various illegal goods and services becoming available at different times. The hoodlums, dealers, dopers, users, laggers, burnouts, hopheads, pushers, Sampsons, cookers, daddies, fences, hangers-on; aspiring deliquents with their heads in the clouds, people doing things in the shadowy recesses I've never even thought of. Faces in the dark like Francis Bacon. You're reminded of the diabolical corners of a Bosch or a Gustave Dore. 

Some call Third and Pine the Blade; others the Hive; or simply McDonalds, giving that innocuous company name completely new meaning. I call it the Center of the Universe. That there aren't serious crimes happening constantly here is a testament to all the people. The Scientologists are more likely to interrupt your day than the hardened– and usually fairly distracted– folks at the corner.

Then there are the homeless and low-income, not to be confused with the buyers and sellers. If those were the will-nots, these are the have-nots, and though they might be indistinguishable visually, or may once have very well been the same, their aims couldn't be more opposed. The grammar of these lives is different. Let us not prejudge these folks trying to get a leg up in life, rushing for buses to appointments and interviews, meeting their case managers, their minds trafficking in the whirlwind blur of waiting lists, shelters, social service calls, deadlines and dwindling dollar amounts, work release programs.... Their hustle is the harder one, with higher stakes.

Tonight a boisterous group of African-American men is in the island stop shelter, huddled around playing dice, their culture's answer to a cluster of old Chinese surrounding a game of Mahjong. I tap the horn and one steps out of the road and back on to the sidewalk, consumed in the game. Another steps onboard, still enthralled, yelling through the windows, "That ain't money! Those are coins! Are you serious?"

I'm pulling slowly forward, preparing for the famous left turn on Third. This has to be done at a snail's pace. I love it. The bus in slow motion as people dash out, wander out, saunter– the speed and alternating paces of a dream. 

You're enormous but precise, slower than walking speed, a blue whale in a school of fish as the crowd swims past. Everybody's watching. There are surprisingly few deaths each year at this, the jaywalking capital of the world. Because you expect it. Behind me now people are shouting on the McDonalds corner. I ignore it, thinking I'm no Looky-Loo, but wait, it's building to a crescendo, people shrieking, clumps of groups glancing at each other. Are they yelling at me? 

Then, louder than ever, I hear, "WASSUP! AY! AY!"
I turn my head all the way back. We're in the middle of the intersection, inching forward, starting to turn the wheel.

That's not a brawl breaking out. It's Sho Luv, hollering a warm hello at me, overwhelmed with goodwill. Absolutely beaming. Next to him are a couple other brothas, one watching me and smiling.
From the bus window I extend my arm, bellowing, "HEYYY! HOW'S IT GOING? MISTER SHO LUV!"
I think he said, "Sho Luv in da house!" Those gold teeth flashing brighter than ever, reflecting off the sodum vapor lamps, blowing up the orange night.
"Iss a pleasure!" I howl.
"Das mah boyee!" I hear him hollering into the night, as I drive away.

What stayed with me most about the interaction was not Sho Luv himself, but that young man next to him, his friend or whoever it was, the kid who was watching. He was unsure what was going on, curious as to my response, and then thrilled at my excitement. I saw the man just long enough to see the smile forming on his face. What a beautiful light. Two different worlds met in that greeting, and instead of a collision, he saw a warm glow. His world got a little bigger in that moment.

Two girls are getting on at southbound Dearborn, early college maybe, coming aboard in handfuls, pulling their luggage behind and beside them. Together they form an impression of primary colors, a rush of straps and travel and quickly brushed hair, shoes built for walking. The one is asking for Mount Baker Station, no doubt interested in Sea-Tac.

As they walk down the aisle I ask, "are you about to go on a big adventure, or coming back from one?"
"We just came from a big adventure, Seattle was our adventure!"
"Oh how fantastic!"

They decide to sit up front, continuing the conversation. "Hope you guys had a good time here," I ask.
"We did!"
"Thanks for bringing the sunshine!"
"And now we're taking it away!" 
"It's okay, I'm willing to deal!"
The clouds had just returned. The two of them are effervescent, with wide smiles and sparkling eyes, that natural excitement which comes easily to the youthful of any age.

"How long have you been driving a bus?" the second girl asks. They speak together as one, alternately answering or listening; clearly friends for years.
"Seven years," I reply.
"Oh. that's a long time."
"I loooove it."
"Really!"
"Getting to talk to people all the time, to provide this elemental need of transport, to help peop- you know how when somebody needs help, and you're able to help them, and they feel great, and you get this altruistic high of well-being?"
"I know exactly!"
"Oh it feels so great, spreading that good energy. Getting to hang out with all these folks I would never ordinarily get to hang out with.... So I see you're flying out on a Saturday!"
"Yeah,"
"Which I think is great. It's cheaper for sure,"
"Oh, yeah,"
"Tuesday, Wednesday, and Saturday seem to be the best. I go to LA a lot, and it's all about Tuesday through Saturday. Doesn't cost ANYthing,"
"Why do you go to LA?"
"I have some good friends down there. It's my hometown. Where are you going back to?"
"Columbus, Ohio," says the one.
"And I'm going to North Carolina," says the other.
"Just a hop skip and a jump away!"
"Yeah, shouting distance, you know!"
"North Carolina, excellent. By Durham?"
"Close." She explains a town I haven't heard of in the vicinity. "About twenty miles away."
"I've never gone out there."
"You should come!"
"And Columbus, Ohio, where I have also never been."
"You should come!" says the other girl, in laughing repetition.
"So many new places to add to my already long list of places to travel! Now, how is it that you two know each other if you're from completely different places?"
The answer involves particulars of going to school together, one formerly living in Ohio, and so on. They explain the banalities with a bubbly energy we all seem to be building together. You know that sensation, talking to someone new at the party about hardly anything at all, but you're both so excited.

"I have a question!" I suddenly say.
"Yes!"
"Were people in Seattle friendly?"
"Yes!"
"Oh good. The answer to that question seems to vary dramatically depending on where people are coming from I think."
"Oh yeah, people were great. well, not everybody, of course. but yeah. You're friendly!"
"Aw!" Brief pause. "Did you have a favorite thing you saw or did here?"
"Just up the street here, on Rainier, we went to Humble Pie. It was the best! We went there four times in two weeks!"
"Oh my goodness, I've been there zero times in fifteen years! Clearly you guys have the jump on me!"
"You've gotta go! What's your favorite thing in Seattle?"

Thinking on my feet, fishing for an answer– "Oh my oh my hmm, that would take too long to answer, there's just so much! My mind is going crazy just trying to think of an answer!" Pause. They wait for me to come up with something. 
"Right here, right now, driving the bus," I say finally. What else is there, after all, besides the present?
"Really?!?!"
"Yeah, seriously! This is my favorite route."
"The 7?"
"Yeah."
"It's the only one we took."
"Well, if you were gonna take just one route, this one would be it! It's the most popular one, and it goes through Columbia City, which is the most diverse zip code in the United States." 
"Oh wow!"
"Yeah, that's why it's my favorite." That and a host of other reasons, but I'll spare them the details....
"Awesome!"
"So here's Mount Baker, on the right, and over there well, you can see the stairs,"
"What's your name?"
"Nathan. And yours?"
"Laura."
"Azalia," says the other.
"Cool name!" 
"Thanks!"
"Have a really great rest of your shift!"

A Latino man stands and comes up to the front. Baseball hat and black work clothes, a jacket flung over his shoulder. I'm not sure how much English he speaks, but I decide to engage him as well; being silent after all that chatter with the girls would be its own statement, and too easily misinterpreted negatively.

"How's your night going?"
"Good! How about you?"
"Great. Good people,"
"Yeah, I saw you talking to those nice girls!"
"I like talking to people."
"I work at a resaurant too,"
"Oh, you understand! It's the same!"
"Yeah, it's the same. It makes the day exciting."
"To hear their stories, listen to all these different lives, be part of it...."
"Yes!"

The solidarity I felt in the short interaction with him was just as satisfying as the chat with the ladies. They were enjoying being privy to something new to them, but Latino and I were sharing in something we both already know we love. Joy, expressed and explored in different ways. I drove away through the dark overhanging trees at Walden, thinking, it really is true. For this moment, right now, being lucky enough to be driving this 7 down Rainier Avenue really is my favorite thing in Seattle. Yes, you can call me crazy!

As I woke a scruffy older sleeper at the U District terminal, he grumbled out something I think he intended to be derogatory. Something about "you know what you and your coworker, buhuuuh uuh," a remnant from that zone between dreams and wakefulness. I couldn't understand his slurred speech though, and wished him well as he stood up. I got a few stretches in as he gathered himself into the present and stumbled away. Several minutes later when I started the bus back up again, he reappeared, and I said happily, "back for more! Awesome, dude!" 

He smiled, seeing no more need for the antagonism from his dreams.

Another passenger got on some time later, also an older male. He looked like Elton John with a sunburn and twenty extra pounds, and he staggered into the chat seat and began regaling me with a story from earlier. "So I found a wallet the other day. In the street. A wallet."
"That's pretty cool," I said.

You can tell when someone's been drinking, and then you can tell when they've been drinking all day. This was the latter. 

"I opened it up the wallet, and there was a cocaine straw," he yelled.
"There you go."
"So I thought, cool! And then there was a twenty. Right there, inside the wallet. So I had a cocaine straw and a twenty, right there off the street."

He paused for dramatic effect before continuing. Other people were listening now. I feel like I'm on a stage of sorts in situations like this. The sleeper from earlier was now awake, sitting nearby. More refined types and Capitol HIll hipsters fill out the rest of the bus. Was I going to tell him to stop talking? Nope. Mister Elton the Cocaine Strawman is my buddy too.

He continued holding forth: "And the wallet had a you know, a secret pocket. And guess what was in it?"
"What was in the secret pocket?"
"Seventy dollars!"
"Well now, that sounds excellent!"
"Yeah it was," he blurted in agreement. "And it was rainy and dark outside, and the wallet was black, the wallet, the ground was black, you understand?"
"It was all black!" 

The juxtaposition of the serious concentration necessary for watching the lanes, anticipating the moves of other cars, and checking the wire– all that in combination with a dialogue like this, is something I find highly amusing. Just the balance I need. Call it brain tickling. I'm maintaining three feet of clearance for the parked cars while being mindful of passing cars on the left– oh and yes, there was a cocaine straw and the wallet was black.

"It's amazing I FOUND it. But but but. There was no cocaine though." He sounded disappointed.
"No cocaine, just a whole bunch a cash?"
"Uh-huh," he said dejectedly. The sleeper barked out a sardonic laugh. I give voice to his thoughts, saying, "I don't know, man, that still sounds like a jackpot to me!"
"Yeah, really," grumbled Sleeper Man. 

"I'll take ninety dollars," I continue as two teenage girls get on. They're done up Just So, as it's Saturday night. One's having trouble finding money, and the other pays for her. "Such a good friend!" I say. She bats her lashes, and they sit down near Elton the wallet finder, who stares at them goggle-eyed. 

Finally he says, "you guys look reeeeally pretty!" 
Pause containing deafening awkward silence. "Are you guys teeeenagers?"
They nod patiently.
"You look like you're about SEVENTEEN, is that right?"

Pretty soon it will be time to steer the conversation in a healthier direction. While I'm thinking about how to do this diplomatically, Sleeper Man butts in on my behalf and that of the girls, saying to Elton: "well, you look like you're about SEVENTY, so why don't you shut up?"

Everyone within earshot collapses in laughter.

Elton the Wallet Finder's a good sport. "No, I'm sixty, I'm sixty! Okay, I'll leave you girls alone." Thank goodness for friendly drunks.

Sleeper Man gets off at Union. His first words to me may have been negative, but his last are positive. Out of nowhere he says, "hey! Did you know UPS and FedEx are merging?"
"What? No way!"
"Yeah, I heard it on the news!"
"This is madness!"

I felt like he wanted to balance out whatever negative energy he was belching out when I woke him up. It wasn't because he thought I might be interested in company acquisitions. The attitude from earlier wasn't big enough to warrant an apology, but he seemed to feel a need to reach across the empty spaces. The UPS news seemed offered out of a desire to what, find that wonderful meeting point, questing for equilibrium, the need to lay claim to that shared territory which proves we all have something in common. 

Have you missed my last few shows? No worries! This is your chance! I'll be at my current exhibition the evening of August 21st, for Georgetown's Third Thursday art walk. Stop by Kate Alkarni Gallery for a chat and check out work by a variety of great artists! 

Bring your friends! Come alone! It's a friendly party. Details here.