It's a welcome surprise when our preconceptions of how groups of people behave are broken down. Such incidents remind us not simply of the well-known fact that people don't behave like cultural stereotypes, but also of something else- a person may also behave against the established understanding of the persona they choose to project. To explain:

We're a 4, climbing the hill on James, sailing smoothly on the wire, coming in for a gentle stop outside the jail. I announce the jail as one of this stop's attractions, and we have fun getting over ourselves, asking each other if anyone wants to go to jail, et cetera. We get that out of the way. 

Stepping on the bus now is a young black American fellow, late teens, and his manner of dress is, well, smooooth, as per the dictates of the latest fashion. Oversized velour Puma pants ($60), sparkling white and appropriately sagged; a poly fleece zip-up cat hoodie ($65), also by Puma, unzipped, with the hood up and strings dangling; this of course is oversized as well, bright white with blue accents; white strapback cap with a factory-fresh flat bill (~$30), gold and silver necklace chains, and top-brand basketball shoes, loosely laced, easily in the $150-220 range. Not a speck of dust on these puppies. He might play ball, but he definitely doesn't wear these when he does. Is he wearing one-way reflective sunglasses that cover his face? Of course he is. 

He's a towering vision dressed in glowing white, the world's first combination of Gandalf the White and Jam Master Jay back when Run-DMC started endorsing Adidas!* 

In other words, he's too cool for school. Everything about his demeanor suggests that I'm not going to get a peep of acknowledgement  from him. That would be fine, but I still say something. It's my nature. After all, I used to wear flannel shirts so big they went down to my knees. Like all other humans, I give him the benefit of the doubt as I say,

"How's it goin'?"

He takes it all in stride and leisurely slurs out, in the kind voice of one young man to another: "doingoodhowboutchurseeelf?"

Oh, I love it. I love it. Who says chivalry is dead?


*Interestingly, this was the first time hip-hop and athletic wear were associated. As commonplace as the connection is now, the linking of those two worlds was considered somewhat arbitrary at the time. This gentleman wears his shoes loosely laced as a compromise between the obvious benefits of having shoelaces (i.e., ability to run) and the fashion statement of having no laces at all. Felons serving time couldn't wear shoelaces because the danger of suicide by hanging, and this was interpreted on the outside as a fashion move.

I've mentioned Nathan (no, not me) before. He shows up on Thursday evenings. He's developmentally disabled in some way, of average height but with a large head and bulky upper body. Behind thick glasses is one lazy eye, and his asymmetrical legs and feet seem smaller than the rest of his frame. Nathan is perhaps slightly older than myself- an old boy of thirty, with sad eyes and jowls.

When first starting out on the 358 I wrote that I hadn't yet ascertained what a normal shift on the 358 is like. That, as I have since learned, is because there is no such thing. Some days you're swamped, carrying a hundred people on a vehicle with only 58 seats, while other days have a leisurely ten people onboard. Sometimes you're 20 minutes late and only halfway through the route, and other nights you finish out 15 minutes early. And of course, the crowd is utterly unpredictable. The air can be sticky with the humming incompatibility of contrasting souls, alive with a vibrant mixture of colors and noise, or it can be a tranquil night out on the town. Even Aurora is quiet sometimes. 

One of the rare serene evenings found Nathan and I cruising up Aurora at a relaxing 30 miles per hour. Nothing's happening, and it's a mellow dream of a ride.  Nathan always sits in the chat seat. There are perhaps five other people on the bus, spread from front to back.

"I'm gonna put in a good word for ya." He says with conviction, looking at me.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I'm gonna talk to Paul."
"Is that right?"
"Paul Bachtel, that is." He's said these lines before. It's hard to tell if he really does know Paul Bachtel, the union president. "You're a good bus driver, and you deserve it," he continues in a slow monotone, against my smiling protestations. "Gonna get Paul on the phone, have a conversation with him. Maybe get Neal on the phone too."

"Yeah, you're gonna talk to Neal?"
"Neal Safrin, yeah, the VP."
"Well shoot, Nathan, that's real generous of you. What can I say."

Nathan's wearing a dirty sweatshirt and dark pants. Some days he smells worse than others. Does he even really know these guys?

"I sound like I know your boss, huh?" he asks, in a voice that begs to be looked up to. He wants to sound like he's "in with the big guys," as it were. 
"What's that?" Rounding the curves at Linden Avenue.
"I said it sure sounds like I know your boss, doesn't it?" He looks at me with his one steady eye, his face apparently yearning to hear a "yes!"

At the time I said, "well, actually he's not my boss. He's just the union president."
"I sure sound like I know the union president," he returns. "Don't I? Don't I sound like that?"
"It sure does sound like that." This is a question he asks all the time, and I don't mind humoring him. Who knows. Maybe he really does know the union guys. I can't tell yet. "Hey, you've convinced me," I'll say.

"Guess where I was," he says after a pause. I look at his friendly pink face. In his eyes you sense a younger person than the body he's hiding in. "I was at Brian's wedding."
"Well, that sounds great."
"Brian Levitt's wedding, I mean," he says slowly, as if revealing a trade secret. Brian Levitt (I've changed the name) is another Metro driver.
"Brian Levitt, shoot, that's wonderful!"
"Yeah, he just got married."

Now, I'm thinking, is Nathan really telling the truth here? Was he actually at Brian Levitt's wedding? Who knows? Maybe he really was. Some drivers establish good friendships with riders. I decide to ask further.

"Where was it?"
"A church."
"Yeah? Where?"
"In the north end."
"Now, Brian's an older guy. Is this his first time getting married?"
"What? No."
"He was married before."
"I think so, yeah."
"So this is his second marriage."
"I guess it must be. Sounds like I'm really good friends with the guy, doesn't it? Invited to a bus driver's wedding. That's a pretty big deal, huh? Sounds like he knows me, huh, Nathan?"

The man's fibbing to the high heavens, I tell myself. My sympathy for him diminishes. Brian Levitt drives a lot of north end work, and Nathan probably knows him about as well as he knows me. The conversation drifts of to other things, like the children's daycare he volunteers for and how much he loves the Shoreline Police Department. A few nights later, he's there again. We snake through the madness of downtown, and after we cross 46th and things die down a little, he pipes up.

"Guess who I saw today? Brian."
"Brian Levitt?"
"Yeah, Brian Levitt. He saw me at Aurora Village, and he signaled me to come over to have a private conversation."
 "A private conversation, oh dear. What'd joo guys talk about?"
 "Well, I can't really talk about it," he says with a grin.
 "'Cause it was private, wasnt it?"
 "Yeah."
 "Good! That was a test!"
 "Yeah, he wanted me to go over and talk to him. Talk to Brian."
 "There you go."
 "Sounds like I'm in with the big guys, doesnt it?" he says with a proud smile.
 "It really does sound like that," I say, in no way convinced. I let him off the hook, though; anything else would be unnecessary.

"I should apply for Metro," he says on another occasion.
"Yeah you should. In fact, you should be drivin' this thing right now in fact, that way I could run across the street and get a bit to eat. Whaddaya say, you do a round trip and I'll go over here to the Chinese place-"
"Well, I can't. I can't drive 'cause I can't have a license." 

He looks down at the floor as he says this. There's a dejection in his voice that's real, more truthful than anything he's told me in the past three months. I sense it and try to right the situation.

"Shoot, Nathan, you'd be a pro at customer service. You should get in there. Helping people. You know the system, after all." In truth, he really does. I doubt he'd have any problem doing that job.

Later on, he's at it again. "Hey, Nathan. Guess what? For Christmas, my folks are gonna give me a ride home, so I dont have to ride the bus home." He looks at me waiting for a response, before adding, "sounds like they really care about me, doesn't it?"

"It does sound like they care about you. That's wonderful, them lookin' out for ya." We discuss the specifics of what bus he now wouldn't have to take home on Christmas night. I tell him about the bus I'll be taking on Christmas- as a bus driver, I try to drive as little as possible outside my work, and thus use the bus system quite heavily. There's a yearning palpable in his voice as he changes the subject, saying-

"To be invited to his wedding, Brian's wedding, that's an honor. Sounds like he really cares about me, doesn't it? You get that, right?" Looking straight at me. 
"Yeah, he thought of you, and wanted you to be at his special day."
"Exactly."
"And when I was in the Aurora accident on the 359, man..."

He's talking about the 1998 incident on the 358 (then called the 359, an identical route) where a gunman shot and killed the driver, Mark McLaughlin, resulting in a crash off the Aurora Bridge onto an apartment building that either killed or injured everyone on board. He's claiming he was on it. Lots of people do, though. Anyone who actually was involved doesn't hesitate to tell their story. I know the relief driver who ended his shift on that very trip; Mark had just taken over and started his shift when it happened. As for myself, I'm guilty of doing that as well, in that I tell people how I almost rode that fateful trip; this really was the case. Fate ended up intervening. 

As for Nathan, I'm hesitant to believe his words. I could easily look it up, find out if he was one of the passengers, but I decide not to for some reason. I don't want to know that he's lying. He wants something from people, and I don't want to deprive him of that. And, who the heck knows- maybe he really was on that bus on that day.

"I'm so glad you were okay, Nathan." 
"Me too. I was in the hospital, and Brian Levitt came to check up on me..."

I suddenly found myself wanting to cry. 

Of course he's not telling the truth. Of course he's lying. But the ache in his lonely voice, the desperate yearning for recognition, respect, acknowledgement as an equal, the desire to be thought of as special...that's the truth in what he's telling me. That's the content in his words. We all have that want. There's a nakedness in the emotion behind his words, and it moves me. I don't dispute him or needle at his words. I let him talk it out. 

"Think I'll go out for dinner tonight. That sounds nice, doesn't it."
"It does sound nice," I say in a quiet voice.
"I'm gonna go out tonight, have a nice bottle of wine."
"Where you gonna go?"
"Not sure yet. Somewhere nice, though. Fancy, with nice tablecloth, good service..."

We coast through the darkness as the street numbers get higher and higher. The 358 pursues a straight line, pushing ever onward, deeper and deeper out on the wide, cluttered expanses of Aurora Avenue. The bus starts to empty out. Nathan and I share a comfortable silence as the drama of the route dies down. We're approaching 155th.

"You know, I think I'll get off here tonight."

I look around. There aren't any fancy restaurants anywhere at this stop. There's Safeway, Sears, World Market, and a couple of decent gas stations.

"Gonna stop in at Safeway?"
"Yeah," he says softly. "Gonna pick up something to eat."

He doesn't try to hide it anymore. The facade is lifted for a moment. 
"You have a good night, Nathan."
"I'll see ya," he says, walking unevenly across the parking lot toward the deli entrance. His off-balance gait is unmistakable in the darkness.

Thank you all for your wonderful comments, as usual. Always feel free to leave a remark- remember, I read and respond to every single comment made on this site.

 And now, a round on the 358, down and back~

 Aurora &180th:  A friendly elderly woman with thick, bug-eyed glasses climbs on board. 
"How are you?" 
"Fine," she says with confidence, sounding more like a reflex than anything else. She sits in the chat seat and watches me for a few moments. Finally she says, "I have a question about the bus." 
"Sure."
"Does this route make a stop by the funny farm?"

She'd asked it in a serious voice. I look at her face, which is serious as well. Is she pulling my leg? Sometimes it's best to err on the side of caution-
"I don't know where the funny farm is. Do you know what street it's on?"
"Well, I don't know the address," she says thoughtfully. "I just figured it must go there, since there's so many crazy people on this bus."
(Including the driver, I think to myself.)
"Oh, those are my buddies!"
She's not sure how to take that. But they are.

Northgate Way: A woman- I think she's a woman- I recognize from my days on the 10. Glasses and an oversized outdoor jacket. She did something to one of her tendons, but she'll still be able to make it to practice. She plays basketball. Quit her job at the airport- "too much hard labor at minimum wage, and no opportunity for upward advancement." She does entry-level work at a hotel now. It's good to catch up.

100th: There's a middle-aged fellow who gets on here regularly. Today he has a white coat with a hood. He hardly speaks English, and there's nothing for us to talk about, but both of us are always thrilled to see each other. "Heeeyyyy," I say gleefully. "Heeeyyyy," he responds with a huge smile. Feels good, pulling back onto the road, my smile not fading away just yet.

85th: A man behind me makes a phone call, loudly: "Hey. Yeah. Hey. I'm on the bus now, at Aurora and 85th."
"Me too," I say. The front of the bus laughs. 

Winona and 73rd: Well-dressed, odorless people ride the 358 too. They get on in the Green lake portion of the route. One such lady looks at me with warm amusement. "You don't look old enough to be driving this."
"Maybe I'm not..."

Denny Way: A tall, scruffy older man with a ponytail- definitely didn't get on in Green Lake- pauses as he goes down the front steps to deboard. He'd been muttering to himself for the duration of the trip. Turning his head back toward me dramatically, he says in a conspiratorial voice:
"You're advanced."
I laugh off the compliment, saying "Oh, I don't know about all tha-"
"No. No. You're advanced, dude. You are advanced."
"Well now. Thank you."
"I'm tellin' ya."
"I try!"
"Advanced." It's almost a whisper. He gives me a significant glance and then walks away.

Virginia Street: "Nice to see a driver who actually gives a crap."

Yesler Way: Another man on his phone, speaking accented English at high volume. A grizzled face nearby says, "Can't hear you!" 
As the man continues his phone conversation at deafening volume, not registering Grizzle, Grizzle continues riffing- "could you talk a little louder? I can't hear you so good..." "Excuse me, a little louder, please, speak up a little, can't hear you-"
The man ends his call and puts it together. He sheepishly apologizes. Grizzle ribs him good-naturedly. We all laugh. Sometimes you feel a situation teetering on the brink of a knifepoint. It's a pleasant relief to come down on the right side. 

5th & Main: A young family gets off in benevolent silence. The father, a man with cornrows and a sports jersey, wears a thoughtful face. There is a sense of beginnings. The mother gathers the stroller in the dim blue light, and their toddler gazes wide-eyed with deep brown eyes, following their lead. You can tell they're grateful for being in this cocoon of acceptance. Father says to me quietly, "you have a safe shif'!"

5th & Jackson: "Hey!" 
"Hey!" she responds. She's on the phone, but I know her from the 7, and we recognize each other instantly. I think she's East African, but can't be sure. She ends her call, and we begin a basic conversation about work and school. The words hardly matter, though. Sometimes it's surprising how little substantive value spoken language carries; neither of us speaks the other's first tongue, but it's hardly a barrier. The shared excitement at coming across another familiar, friendly soul is palpable. She works as an usher and takes night classes at Seattle Central. We smile in the darkness. Leisurely approaching the traffic at Pike, light from the sodium streetlamps casting moving shadows on the bus floor. You live for moments like that. 

Pine: "I have a question. Do you to Bell Street?" A young dark-skinned man with an unusually clear delivery. He's enunciating everything. American. 
"I'd be happy to go to Bell Street."
"Amen, brother!" He wobbles slightly as we roll out. Sitting down on the wheelchair seats, he yells, "I love this city! You all are wonderful people!"

I try to keep unstable people talking to me. I'd much rather they engaged me then the others. "You visiting from somewhere else?" I ask. 
"Hell yeah, I'm visiting! And I'm here to PARTY!"
"There you go."
"Hey mister bus driver."
"What's up?"
"You like beatboxing? You know what beatboxing is, where you make the sounds with your mouth?"
"Course I know beatboxing, yeah-"
"Well then, check this out!"

No creative use of my keyboard here will allow me to communicate even a fraction of what came out of this man's mouth. Ostensibly, yes, it was beatboxing, and it was excellent beatboxing at that- in the sense that it was impossible to believe these sounds were in fact being manufactured by a man's vocal cords- but it carried a veneer of loony abandon that can't be replicated. I couldn't believe what I was hearing, sure, but I definitely couldn't believe what I was looking at. His mouth contorted in ways I didn't know were possible. Couldn't possibly be human. You had to be there, I suppose.

I'm wondering how to get him to tone down his beatboxing fervor when he does so on his own, loudly interrupting himself: "I'm happy to be here, Seattle!"
"Where you comin' from?"
"Orlando, Florida, baby."
"A long ways from home!"
"You better believe it! And lemme tell you somethin'!"
"Hit me!"
"I don't be comin' all that way NOT to have a BIG PARTY!"
"Yeah? You didn't wanna have some small party?"
"Hell no, brotha. I came over here from Orlando, Florida, to GET CRAZY. People don't travel-" He paused, restructuring his thoughts- "if I'm comin' all the way from Orlando, Florida-"
"Cross-country-"
"Yeah, Cross-country. If I'm comin' clear cross the Yoo-nited states-" he sounded like a political commentator now, using the tone of voice Al Sharpton does when he's making a point he thinks is obvious- "then I wanna do some serious partyin'!"

"Makes sense to me," I say. 
"Don't nobody need no small get-together," he continues, appropriating African-American English syntax in a way that's clearly not his normal mode of speaking. 
"You wanna make it worth your while!"
"Yeah, I'm gonna get down with all my homies the Seattle-ITES!" he boomed, looking around inside the bus. As luck would have it, this trip was almost entirely commuters, none of whom showed any interest in the ultimate party. Our friend was not to be dismayed, though, enthusiastically wishing me well, his receding cacophony blending into the noise of another Belltown night.

152nd: An older African-American man and I exchange fistpounds; it's the second time I've seen him today. Rhythmic pleasantries roll off our tongues.
A sullen Caucasian teenager in the front looks on. Something about our enthusiasm confuses the boy immensely. "I thought it was cool to be pissed off," you can imagine him saying.

Aurora Village Transit Center: "How old are you?"
"Twelve," I say in a dejected voice. 

135th: Never seen this fellow before. Could be a teacher, could be a machine operator. "Here, have a bookmark," he says. "Let me know what you think of it next time." He's a like-minded soul in some way; it's an excerpt from the Dhammapada. "Deepen your silence," the last lines read. "Be watchful. Enjoy your empty mind." My kind of bookmark. I haven't seen you again, kind sir, but if you read this- thank you. 

130th: A woman in her 20s bounds onto the bus, overweight in an interestingly lopsided, chunky way. She brightens when she sees me, and in her smile I notice a number of teeth are missing. 
"I got my surgery done!" she exclaims, beaming. 
"Excellent!" Have I seen her before? 
"Yeah, they pulled four teeth out! I was awake the whole time!"

I must not remember her, but she certainly remembers me. One of the joys of this gig is getting to talk with people I might never have otherwise met. She stays at the front and we talk about surgeries, landlords, her boyfriend, ways that she covers rent, and more. "My landlord is seventy-six years old, so I clean the rooms for her sometimes. Today I wiped up a whole bucket of blood in one room. Sheets were red, needles everywhere..." she relates the details in a slightly bored voice. No, I wouldn't have met her if I had taken that Barnes and Noble cashier job.

She tells me she's going for a culinary arts degree. At South Seattle? No, she says. At the Art Institute. She's going all out. You can tell she's been told it's out of her league. That she doesn't have what it takes. Her strategy is not to overcompensate with groundless bravado, and nor does she carry the attitude of acknowledged defeat; no, hers is an embodiment of quiet resilience. She will simply continue, on the path of who she is, step by increasing step. 

As she explains in a friendly voice how she'd worked out the funding, I begin to notice something beyond her admittedly slovenly physical appearance.  The missing teeth, asymmetrical features, saliva stains around her mouth, the double chin to rival Henry VIII- none of those are it. These superficialities cease to register. You notice something else, very faint but present. It's the glint in her eyes. In that pinpoint of light is the unspoken confidence of self. Humanity. It's the world reflecting back at you. Didn't the great minds have that spark when they were young too?

Next stop, 125th Street.

*A note of apology goes out to the "303 WeatherWhiner" mentioned here and here. She has come around quite nicely. Good people come in all shapes, sizes, and backgrounds.

Wanted to leave a quick note informing you that I have work (for sale!) hanging in Redmond. Details here.

I'm still working on the writeup about the Light Skinned Black Woman, which I hope to post later this week. As some of you know, there is simply so much to say about the gal. I can't wait to share.

In the meantime, here are some new images in the Photography section of the site. They're from my most recent visits to my homeland of Los Angeles. These are all taken in Compton and East LA.