Somewhere in the deep and ancient bowels of this blog there's mention of a thin, wiry old soul who once rode my 358. She was part of the methadone crowd. There was a time when she could walk without a walker. She used to scamper through the air. She was in her fifties, and she scampered. If you saw her from behind, you'd underestimate her age by at least three decades. I knew her when she was homeless, and when she wasn't. Now she has her own apartment, moves a little slower, and a friendly red walker joins her on her escapades. 

We can't choose how time takes its toll on our bodies, but we can control much of how our minds age; hers remains spry, always with a ready grin when I show up. Stooped over her walker, a ninety-pound waif with a map of hardship and laughter writ softly on the lines of her face… I'll honk and wave from across the street, and she comes back to life, eagerly returning the wave. You never know how much a little effort like that can make someone's day, how it reminds them they live in the hearts of others. Dawna. She's known me longer than some of my closest friends. 

"Alright, miz Dawna," I said as she was rising to leave my bus. "Thanks for stoppin' in!"
"I'm blind in my left eye now," she said from behind her round spectacles. "If you're blind in one eye, does that mean you're blind?"
"Well, I'm glad you still got that other one to work with."
"Yeah, but I got cataracts in my right eye."
"Well, you know what they say."
"Huh."
"In the land of the blind... the one-eyed man is king!"

I don't know why I said that, or what compelled me to do so. It barely made sense. It was hardly relevant. 

But it was the perfect response to that moment. Dawna processed the line, and then lit up the night sky with her devil-may-care grin. I still count for something, the line said. Out here in this crazy world, I've still got it. That was the true meaning of the sentence, and that particular sequence of words somehow burrowed the sentiment to a place where she could feel it and be proud. We smirked at each other, winking with our whole faces, and we knew as long as we reached out to each other, gave a little love, everything was going to be all right. 

Photograph by Susan Newbold.

This interview very much falls under the "everything-you-always-wanted-to-but-were-afraid-to-ask" category. William Pennington interviews various local luminaries here in Seattle, and he's not afraid to go in depth. We really talk about everything here, and if you've ever wondered why bus tires aren't solid, whether or not there's "a Mt. Rushmore for bus drivers,", and what bus driving has to do with the myth of Sisyphus, this is your ticket! Click the link below for more, and enjoy!

Thirty-Three Questions With Nathan Vass, Artist, Photographer, Filmmaker...And Metro Bus Driver

Photo by Victoria Holt.

"Nathan! There's a friend who wants to meet you!" 
This is a conversation that's happened more than once. I'll reply:
"Well, tell them to come ride the 7 to Rainier Beach! At night!"
"Um, ha! I don't think that'll go over so well!"

I lovingly think of my route as my "office hours." Anyone can stop in, and everyone does. Office hours are designed to benefit students, and it's here the metaphor breaks down: I feel like I'm the one gaining the most, learning from what I see and hear. It's a terrific way to pass the time, listening to the world go by. Even better, though, are office hours where I'm not distracted by the fact of, you know, making sure people don't get killed….

Which brings us to gallery sitting. What better place is there to chat than in the safe, spacious company of art and sunlight wafting through the windows? I might answer by suggesting extremely expensive, thirty-ton roving industrial vehicles filled with the perfect mixture of mentally stable and unstable people and constant interruptions, but that's just me. Galleries aren't so bad as a runner-up.

Which brings us to May 20, when I'll be sitting at the gallery for the show I wrote up here, and which opened on the 4th. There's nothing urgent about this, really; it's a fun show, not a crucial one, and although the piece I have in it is personal to me, I do only have the one piece (the show is 33 "totally fake" record covers, each by a different artist).

Openings are about seeing and being seen, but this isn't an opening. Office hours are better. Everyone's already come and gone, and now that the kerfuffle's died down there's actually time to sit down and talk. 

Stop in if you like!

700 1st (on Cherry, just east of 1st)
Saturday, 5/20, 2:30-4:30

Bare Naked Bravery is a podcast hosted by Emily Ann Peterson, the singer songwriter, author, teaching artist, and creative entrepreneur. On it she celebrates the lives of luminaries from all backgrounds across the country who've shown bravery in their own special and inspiring ways. I'm so honored to be included among this group!

Join us as we discuss... just about everything!

Thanks for listening.

A friend and I were strolling through the plaza at Fifth and Jackson, on our way to Daiso Japan. Incredibly, I'd never been, and was excited. The night was dark. Figures to my left and right, huddling in the gloom, a nightmare with the right assumptions. Has the effort I've laid down over the years toward these people helped me? Do such things make a difference?

They do and they don't. The reason for my kindness isn't a desire for protection, nor the expectation of the same in return. Those are frequent and wonderful benefits for which I'm thankful, but they're not why I'm nice. 

There is no tip jar for public bus drivers. This fact separates it from many other customer service jobs, and it's one of my favorite aspects of the gig. Why?

Because without one, the public knows your kindness is completely genuine. There is no incentive, no reason for pretense. A friendly bus driver means something to people. That woman or man piloting this vehicle, out here amongst the chaos, actually just likes being nice. There are people like that. 

Of course I love it when the contagiousness of kindness reveals itself in others– without this job I wouldn't know that it happens basically all the time, amongst all people– but I have to remember to give folks the space necessary to be who they are in that moment. They don't need to reply. They can have some room. I greet everyone once, keeping in mind Mr. J. M. Barry: "Be kinder than necessary because everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle." That good energy you make comes back around in unexpected ways. It's something real you built, and they build it too.

In the plaza a man came toward us, tall, dark, cloaked, with an imposing figure and strong build, mysteries in those sagging pockets. Hard to make out his expression in this gloaming. I felt short in his presence.

"Excuse me, young man and young lady, I was wondering…," he began, reaching his hand out. 

Then he recognized me.

A grin exploded out of him, the type of beaming smile that would make any person's face beautiful. He radiated convivial vigor. "It's you!!! Hey, man," he exclaimed, as we shook hands long and firm. He turned to my friend. "This guy is the best! He is the best, nicest, friendliest…."
"Oh no," I laughed.
"You are!"
"It's good to see you! I'm sorry I'm not driving today! But I'll be back Saturday!"

He wished us both a great night, still beaming. He didn't ask us for anything at all. I was touched by that, because he looked like he would have benefited from doing so. I believe he refrained out of respect. Which moved me. Or perhaps we gave him what he needed, in the form of joy, the animation of delight and all it reminds us toward.

He certainly gave me the same.

This is a continuation of the story below– scroll down or click here!

The Kristofferson-John Wayne hybrid mentioned earlier, having long ago finished blessing the ridership, now pipes up after watching me in my element.

"You the best of the best, brutha," he rumbles. "You're pretty good, brutha." Puuurty guhd. "The best of the best! You're pretty darn good…." 
It's nice to hear at first, but the guy won't let up. I guess I should be grateful. 
"You're gonna jinx it, Larry!" I reply. One of my favorite sleepers, Liz, stirs awake at Larry's low-frequency voice and its ceaseless adulations.
"Best of the worst, more like," she groans in mock displeasure. "This guy he love you. Have to invite him to your wedding!"

And so begins another of our epic bantering sessions. I love her Jamaican accent.

"What wedding is that?" I ask.
"When you get married! You have to invite all of us!"
"I didn't know I was getting married!"
"Of course you are, Nathan!"
"You know, that's actually something I think about. If I ever was to get married, I would invite all the passengers. Free food!"
"And free booze!" 
"THEN they'll come! No one cares about food!"
"Yeah, nobody wants food," she laughs. "They just want booze. Except me, I want a soda."
"Yeah, I don't drink booze."
"Me neither."
"Gimme some orange juice, I'm good."
"Me too." 
"Wait," I say. "Who am I marrying?"
"Your girlfriend!"
"Oh yeah? Do I know her?"
She cackles. "Yeah! You're gonna meet her on the bus."
"I'm so glad to be learning this information!" I quip. "Is she a bus driver?"
"What? No. Nathan. She's an office girl."
"An office girl!?"
"She works nine to five!"
"Nine to five, wow. One of those. Oh I get it, and I'll meet her on her way from work."
"No, she's at home right now. It's too late for her. She doesn't ride the bus this late. She's a good girl." 
"Oh that's good. I'm glad I'm marrying a good girl."
"I'm just looking out for you, Nathan. Yes, invite everyone."
"Oh, I will, believe me! I especially have to invite you, since you know everything about me!"
"Yup!"
"It'll be you and me, Liz, drinkin' some lemonade, and everyone else fallin' down drunk!"

We continue drifting deeper into the southlands. Unable to contain my enthusiasm, I greet an incoming passenger with, "Happy Sunday!"
He frowns. "Happy Sunday? Da fuck?"
"I'm just tryna keep it light, keep it positive, you know! Gotta do what we can, right?"
He sees something in me he responds to– truthfulness perhaps, or experience. He comes around. "Das whussup!" 

This guy's the love child of Kawhi Leonard and Keegan-Michael Key. At the end of the line he asks, "when do you go back?"
"We're gonna park it here, mother nature's callin' me! I apologize!"
For some reason my verbalizing my bathroom needs compels him to proclaim, "you got GAME, bro! Don't gotta apologize for nothin'! You cool, light-hearted!"

Feel the enthusiasm, so rich in the air. Where does it come from? To what degree did we build it ourselves? I watch him and a young white man come together in search for his missing Mike and Ike's, connecting over Redman and Method Man. I can't catch all of their conversation, but I can feel its goodness.

Two young men got on, angry with each other. That was half an hour ago. But look at them now, standing up in the back to shake hands, coming together in a handshake hug. They bound out together, white teeth glowing.

Liz looks at Larry. She asks, "so what happened to your face?"
"Oh, I, uh. I fell down some stairs."
"Oh yeah? Nobody beat you up?"
"No, I just fell. But it's still funny."
"You got a great attitude!" I say. He's chuckling. I could learn from this man. 
Liz responds, "it looks like it hurt!"
"Yeah. But it's good." 
"Well, that's good," Liz answers. "Did you cry? Did you cry one little tiny tear?"
Gruffly: "no!"
"It's okay to cry!"
"I'm a tough guy!"
"Tough guys can cry too!"
"I'm a tough guy." 
"You're a tough cookie!"
"But my heart hurt a tiny little bit."
"That's okay."

It's okay to cry, John Wayne. We know you're human too. 

A randy octogenarian stares at me from outside, inhaling for a howl. "You are CUTE," he roars.

The night carried on, effervescent, moment to moment, making as much or as little sense as it needed to. I didn't want to be anywhere else.

---

Friends! I'll be featured on next week's episode of Bare Naked Bravery, a podcast "hosted by Emily Ann Peterson exposing the threads of heroism behind the stories and people we love most..." Eep! Stay tuned!