I thought you might like this.

One final treat before I take a month-long hiatus from the blog (Europe beckons)! This is me telling a story at a well-known monthly storytelling event at an establishment at the north end of Broadway; I'm not saying exactly where it is– not to be coy, mind you, but because the meetup is intended to build its (significant) population through word-of-mouth, attracting like-minded folk who stumble upon it by chance or else feel compelled to share it from first-hand experience, in hopes that it might preserve its makeup of a body of intrepid storytellers, rather than a massive audience of listeners. If interested, you're encouraged to do your own research to seek it out! As mentioned below, the web is a tool....

I'm thrilled to share the above story with you, and hope you enjoy it. I look forward to sharing more beautiful moments from the streets with you in the New Year. Check back in late January!

Here's a long-overdue set of new photographs; additionally, if you're in Capitol HIll, feel free to stop by Broadcast Coffee, where I have nine works on display, through the end of January! Hope you enjoy them!

"No, that is the great fallacy; the wisdom of old men. They do not grow wise. They grow careful."
"Perhaps that is wisdom."
"It is a very unattractive wisdom. What do you value most?"
"Some one I love."
"With me it is the same. That is not wisdom. Do you value life?"
"Yes."
"So do I. Because it is all I have."

-Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms (1929)

Clip (2 mins): From Seven (1995). Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman discuss different views on apathy. Screenplay by Andrew Kevin Walker. 

--

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

There's a Samoan man in sharp leather who calls me "Center of the Universe." It's because I that's how I announce Third and Pike/Pine. Tonight, somewhere on Jackson, he launched into the following tirade, which I need to contextualize by saying it was yelled hoarsely by him with a smile on his face. I had just innocuously fared someone well with "happy holidays." From the middle of the bus, which is scattered at this late hour with faces rugged but friendly:

"Stop sayin' that shit, man, 'happy holidays!' It's bullshit and you know it!" Arms histrionically waving in the air. "It's about Christmas! It's 'Merry Christmas!' This holiday is about praisin' the Lord from up on high, man! Fuckin' happy holidays, forget that brother, this is about Jesus!" I'm laughing and he is too. He'd be a great preacher.
"Is that right?"
"Yeah it's right, praisin' the greater glory of God, don't hide it! You know better! It ain't about the merchants, we can't be celebrating the merchants, 'happy holidays,' they're just tryna make money off tha Lord! Its about the, it's about Jesus repayin' our debts and rebuildin' that church in three days! Don't say 'happy holidays!' I heard you sayin' that bull, it ain't no happy holidays," 
"I been sayin' both! You heard me mixin' it up!"
"Merchants just after your money, everybody use it as an excuse to buy stuff, they max out their credit cards five years with a swipe! Buy more this year than they did last year!"
"Well, I know that's true!"
"I'm just thinkin' aloud, guys," he says, downshifting. "Thanks for listening!"
"Hey, I'm down, you can say what you gotta say!"
"Thanks for hearing me out, everybody!"
Later on, he said, "hey, what's your name?"
"I'm Nathan. Nathan."
"Nathan. I'm Patu."
"Patu?"
"Patu yeah, I'm Samoan. You're a great bus driver great guy."
"Thank you. It's always good to see you!"
"Have a good night! And–" forget political correctness for now, as we holler at each other in unison– "Merry Christmas!"

Later that night, an elderly Jamaican regular looked at me askance after I had diplomatically said "happy holidays."
"I define my holidays," he said. Dramatic Pause. Then: "Merry Christmas!"
Okay then! "Merry Christmas!"

I suppose it's similar to how I feel about the term Caucasian. The etymology derives from the Caucasus Mountains, located between the Black Sea and Caspian Sea, with specific reference to the 18th-century populations which lived on the southern slopes. Neither I, nor my father nor any of his ancestors have ever had anything to with the Caucasus Mountains. Especially not the southern slopes. I guess I prefer the non-PC "half-white" or "non-white" or yes, "mixed-race," or the tentatively canonized "hapa." Or we could all just settle for "Muggle."

Having said all of that: Happy Holidays! 

He came up to me at 135th, scabrous and gristled. This was last Christmas Eve, on the 358.

"You give a good ride, man."
"Well, thanks, man. You got plans for the holiday?"
"Yeah, I'm gonna get off here, go over to KFC."
"Oh, right on."
"Yeah, gonna grab some dinner for my girlfriend. We're gonna stay in tonight, watch some TV."
"Sounds good to me, chance to relax. 'What it's all about, right?"
"Exactly."

What I felt was not pity but admiration. He existed outside of all the shame, the hunger for status that drives so many of us, leading us to places of inadequacy and judgment, washing away the awareness of what's truly important. I daresay his Christmas Eve was, in its barren simplicity, likely more stress-free than any number of his fellow Seattlelites.

He got on along with the great mob at 4th and Pike. Somebody in front of him was taking an extra moment to pay cash, and he'd tapped his ORCA card and snuck quietly past, but my "how's it going" reached his ears. The man had been planning to walk further back, but after seeing the way I greeted everyone he sat down up front with a smile, grinning as one does upon coming across something at once energizing and unexpectedly familiar, like a relative you'd forgotten how much you liked.

He responded by asking how my day's been. 
"It's been fan-tastic," I said. He cackled with shared delight, perfect rows of teeth highlighted against his dark skin and rugged attire.

I continued. "What kind of work do you do? If I may ask."
"Sign spinner," he said sheepishly.
"Really? Science...."
"Sign spinner."
"Oh, sweet! Like 'slow and 'stop?'" He nodded with a rueful smile, which blew into a huge grin upon my saying, "That's awesome!" I was thrilled at the opportunity to learn more about the job I see so often.
"Not really!" he laughed.
"Aww. Are you sure, 'not really?'"
"This is Seattle in the wintertime!"
We burst into fits of giggling. "This is true. Minor detail! But! I would hope, 'cause that sounds like a safety sensitive job, I would hope you're gettin' paid. I hope they're givin you a little somethin' extra, standing out there. 'Cause it's a standing job too, and that, that, that takes a certain kinda energy!"

We talked about his job, then about mine, how nighttime is the best time for driving, how the light cycles are shorter, the people are fun, how great I think the 7 is, and so on. Through the course of all this we found ourselves using terms like 'fortuitous' and 'elated,' and it wasn't just myself lobbing off the four-syllable words. Here was a man who shared my passion for learning, no matter his career or life circumstances.
"Now, I'm not sayin' you have to," I quipped, "but if you're ever on my bus you can always lean out and wave that "slow" sign around, get some of these cars back in line!" 

Then, after a pause, a new thought occurred to me. I'd been trying to imagine the job from his perspective.

"Hey, lemme ask you something. Do a lot of people wave thanks, or hi or something, as they drive past you?"
"Aaaauuuhhmm," he said. We laughed again. "Sometimes they do. I always do. I mean, it only takes a second, to smile."
"It only takes a, exactly. I mean, what else are you gonna do?"
"The bus drivers always, they looove me! They get so excited when they drive past...."
"Oh, yeah! I always wave, 'cause i'm thinkin,' both of us are workin,' here we are,"
"Yeah. it only takes a second."
"It's so easy. Plus, you're gonna see each other ten more times!"
"Exactly! Oh man, I know every single bus driver, police officer, ambulance driver,"
"These are good people to know!"
"Taxi driver, Jack-in-the-Box, every single Post Office employee, every pizza delivery guy,"
"There you go! Oh, you're set!"
"One day I'll just be like, 'do you have an extra one uh those?!'"
"And they'll be like, just don't gimme that stop sign next time!"

Another pause. One of those conversations where a silence can enter and easily be broken again later on. I said, "I tell you, 'cause when I look out at these car drivers sometimes, they just seem so depressed! They just look morose!"
We were laughing. 
"Ooh, great word. That's gotta be the word of the day, morose." 
"Thanks man!" 
"Love that word," he said.
"Me too! I so rarely get an opportunity to use it in a sentence!" The giggling fits began anew....
"I love vocabulary!"
"Me too! It expands our horizons. New ways of thinking!"
"Exactly. It's like, why not?"
"I know, man. There's more than five four-letter words with which to express ourselves!"

Walker Percy once wrote that when the same event happens twice, one at one time and the other later on, we can define everything  which has passed in between by whatever differences there are in those two events. There are faces you see, friends of yours, once every blue moon over the developing years. Time collapses in these moments.

Celia and I usually don't really ever plan to run into each other. It just happens. Seattle is just small enough to allow for these happy intersections, and just big enough for them to seem improbable. I'm wondering where– and who– I'll be when I next run into her.

This afternoon we're once again in Rainier Beach, at the layover. She and I are talking about film, the proposed jail and how it's a terrible idea, and talking in Korean. It all melds together, intercutting threads of conversation flowing ever forward. She feel passionately about the youth jail, and how there are better solutions than the expensive monstrosity proposed to take its place. There's a protest coming up where, in many languages, people will chant, "no more youth jail." She's asking if I know how to say it in Korean. 

"Shoot, I don't know 'jail.' We never really said 'jail' when I was growing up at our house. I can say the rest of it though. 'No more youth!'"
"'No more youth?' That would kind of defeat the purpose!"
We begin laughing.

In my periphery there's a figure approaching. He must be late teens, maybe a touch older with those gold teeth, doing his level best to look like Lil' Wayne. He's got the large shades with gold-colored plastic rims, a battery of necklaces and other masculine jewelry flailing about, and sagging– but fitted– jeans. That's the thing nowadays. I give him the upward nod, with a smile.

"Hey guys," he says politely. "I dont mean to interrupt, you all look like you two handsome young people havin' you a conversation– no homo to you, and you look lovely, young lady."
"How's it goin'?"
"I don't mean to interrupt, but could I ask either of you guys got a cigarette?"
"No I'm,"
"Aw man I'm sorry," we're both saying.
"Oh it's koo!"
"You're a gentleman though!" I say.
"My mama raise me tha' way!"  
"She's awesome! You're awesome!" 
"You guys too!"

The moral of all this being, mothers, you have an impact which holds even when you're not around. You are part of them, and the kids are looking up to you. Happy Mother's Day.

This happened a looooong time ago, but it's a story I keep rattling around in my head, especially on these post-Ferguson nights.

"Hold on one sec," he said. Tall African-American man, I'd say thirty, six feet something with a baseball hat (curved bill tonight, not flat) and a wardrobe fitted for a mythical man three times his size: black hoodie halfway zipped, glistening basketball shoes with the wide flat laces, and stone-washed black jeans, the expensive kind, with white accent threads and fabric piled around the sagging bottoms, folds of cloth accumulating around his shoes like Michelangelo's Pietà, or Alexandros of Antioch's Venus de Milo.

"Aw, sure," I said. We were driving something down Third Avenue, either a 3/4 or a 1/14.
"I know I got it." 
"Oh, it's cool."
He kept fumbling around, searching for his transfer.

What would a fellow of his look be up to on a night like this? Ten PM on a weeknight. Sometimes it's polite to not ask. I don't ask specifics of the guys I know are dealers, for example. We talk about things like weather. I really ought not to assume though– haven't seen this fellow before– so I decided to venture.

"How's your night goin'?"
"Iss been good. I just dropped off my son. We went and checked out the ferris wheel."
"Oh, cool! Did he have a good time, your son?"
"Yeah, somebody said it was only three times they go around but we got a good three, four times. It was dope." 
"Perfect. And it's a nice clear night, good for that,"
"Yeah."
"Awesome. I haven't been on it." 
"It's good, yeah." 
"What time they stop runnin' that thing?"
"I think it closes at ten... man, I know I had one. Truly." He was still searching his pockets.

"It's all cool. D'you need another one for later tonight?"
Heartfelt: "truly."
"Here's the goods." 
"Thank you man, I appreciate it."
"Dude, thanks for lookin' for it! I appreciate you!"
"Man, I had it."
"It's all good. I trust you."

Sometimes people just pretend to look for transfers. He really did have one. Finally he showed it to me, excited to prove his honesty. "See?"
"You're awesome! Thank you!"
"Yeah, I just met a new lady," I continued. His eyebrows went up in a half-smile as I went on– "so I been thinkin' about places to take her. That sounds like a good one."
"Definitely. I been lookin' for stuff to do too."
"Oh, nice!"
"Yeah, my lady, she thinkin' about other things, but I'm gonna bring it back. Gonna get it this time."
"Bring back some a that old magic."
His eyes twinkled in the darkness. "Yeah."
"That's beautiful thing," I said. The effort.

His concerns were about the same as mine. I shouldn't have been surprised.