Down and back on the 7, Thursday:

3rd and Union: Miranda. Thirty, with a bright face ready to smile. She's ridden before, out to Wendy's, where she works. We talk about how long of a shift she has- tonight it's easy, only five hours. She's going for the Assistant Manager position there, and certainly seems qualified- perhaps overqualified. She asks about bus driving, and we talk about ways of dealing- maybe interacting is a better term- with people. Traffic is ridiculous; the president is in town. He may not have been on Rainier Avenue, but his presence was certainly felt in the amount of stop and go traffic; we spend an hour getting from Pine to Bayview, a distance that should comfortably only take 30 minutes. There's time to talk. Miranda's attitude is invigorating in a quiet way- she has three children, works all the time, and you can wonder at the stress that must be brought upon her, but what you read in her face is the expression of someone who is both weighed down by a busy life but also made stronger because of it; her resilience is a rejuvenating one, and you sense the outlines of a character you want to be around, or at least emulate. Her smile is a real one. Sitting next to her is Ha'la, a Somalian woman, and they talk about food, motherhood, the challenges of working with or raising mentally disabled children, the rate at which the brain develops versus the body, and I wish I'd had a chance to tell them about Jack, an acquaintance of mine who once told me he couldn't believe how lucky he was, that he got away with having the children that he did. That one of them had Down syndrome didn't even occur to his universe as being something that might be negative or some kind of lost opportunity. Thank goodness for such people.

Rainier and Walker: Older Asian man: "You are having fun!" Me: "How can you tell?" Him: a knowing smiling cackle.

Rainier and MLK: Franklin kids getting off. "Gentlemen, good morning!" I say, before catching myself. It's 5pm. They smile. I get excited when teenagers acknowledge people outside their social circles.

Rainier and Walden: Two middle-aged ladies of ambiguous heritage, hands filled with groceries.: "hey, young man! I like you," one says, simplifying what is probably a more complex thought with the second language of English. As they sit down I hear them muttering to each other, in an accent I can't place,"he's a good driver. He says 'hang on,' 'how are you,'" etc.

Rainier and Alaska: A girl at the stop: "Can we get on the back door?" I say, "gimme one second, it's only one person [getting off]." She looks exasperated, and her dark hooded eyes send that message. She's probably been waiting out there for a while. As she steps on, I say, "how's it goin?" And suddenly there's this shift in her face, as she sees me as not "the other" but as one of her own. A friend. Her whole countenance changes. "Fine," she responds, coyly.

Rainier and Edmunds: "Keep up the enthusiasm," a quiet Caucasian gentleman says, with an unintended hint of menace.

Rainier and Orcas: Another passenger says it again: "you're havin' fun out here." A busty young mother gives me the classic line, which I hear at least once a day: "Man, are you even old enough to be drivin' this bus?" I offer the classic response: "no."

Rainier and Graham: a young, pale-skinned teenager with a striking face. I smile at her in the mirror as she and other passengers get off. You can ride the wave of a smile like that for some time, like it was all you needed, and nothing more, to complete your day.

Rainier and Holly: Younger lady with a lot of makeup, getting on by the senior center: "It's my birthday!" "Happy Birthday!"

Rainier and Othello: An senior-age east Asian man comes up with his family. In English he says to me, "I'm 19!" I look at him and we both burst out laughing.

Henderson Street: I'm doing upside down push-ups on the ceiling of the bus. A dude and his lady walk by. He leans into the bus- I have a habit of leaving the door open at terminals- and asks me what kind of exercise I was doing. He tells me how they're on their way to the beach. I tell him to enjoy the water for me, and he tells me to drive safe tonight.

Rainier and 52nd: Two teenagers dressed in loose-fitting dark basketball clothing. The one smiles before he even gets on, recognizing me. We give each other the upward nod. His friend warmly introduces himself, saying only his name as we shake hands: "Jamal." With that they go running to the back.

Rainier and Rose: A guy on the other side of the street yells out a falsetto "haayy!" I shoot my hand out the window, waving in response.

Rainier and Myrtle: A guy by the car wash yells out a greeting as well- "Aaauuuu!" Once again I wave in return.

Rainier and Holly: "Hey, Doogie. You hijack this mother?" I laugh and say, of course I did. "Props to ya, man." "One day they'll maybe even give me a license!"

Rainier and Orcas: "Heeeyyyy, man. Good to ride witchoo again." A big guy with a deep bass voice and his lady friend. "Welcome back," I say, "always a pleasure;" they go sit in the back.

Rainier and Edmunds: A pleasant older lady with a nice hat and I take pleasure in conversing in grammatically correct and complete sentences, like "I'm having a splendid afternoon, thank you, and how about yourself?"

Rainier and I-90: Younger guy with dreads says: "cool hair." Service worker behind him: "Yeah man, looks good." Prior to I-90 I had thought I was having a bad hair day, but what do I know.

Rainier and Charles: "Hey," she says, taking me in. She's thin, shoulder length dirty blond hair, maybe fifty, or prematurely aged from a life on the street, her once-white skin deeply and irreversibly tanned and roughened. She has a few teeth left, and tells me about how good the food is at the bowling alley. "The best American food, that is. The best Chinese food is up here [at Toshios, on Massachusetts], and the best Vietnamese food is [I forget]," she tells me.
"How's your day been," I ask.
"Oh, it's been alright. My back hurts. Your hair looks good."
[trying to get away from conversations about my hair-]
"Uh-oh. It hurts just when you're walking, or when you're sitting?"
"All the time. Only about a third of the time is it bearable."
"Oh, no. How long has it been hurting?"
"Ever since this guy hit me over a table,"
"Oh no. Oh, no. I'm sorry. Was that recently?"
"Eight years ago."
[trying to bring it back to something positive-]
"Oh, I'm sorry. That's terrible. I gotta try that place out," I tell her. "The bowling alley. I never been in that bowling alley before."
"Oh, yeah. How old are you?"
"Twelve."
A burst of life in her cackle of laughter- "you lie!"
"Oh yeah, twelve. Thirteen maybe,"
"You lie. You're cute though."
[trying to get away from the "cute" stuff-]
"Tell me more about that bowling alley. You said American food?"
"Yeah. I'll be your date!" she says hopefully. Sometimes I just want to hug everyone. Sometimes I don't. Maybe it wouldn't be the best idea.

Rainier and Weller: "Big Guy" from Orcas comes up to the front of the bus and sits behind me, cursing his ladyfriend to himself, something about arthritis, apologies, and motherfuckers; he's trying to contain his anger, distancing himself from her for a moment. She's still sitting in the back. He's making an effort to control himself, and I let him get it out of his system. After a string of staccato phrases he calms down and goes back again.

Jackson and 14th: "Big Guy" gets off through the back door. Into the mic I say, "have a good night," and he yells in kind- "have a good day bus driver!" Contained in his tone is an implied apology for the profanity at Weller.

Jackson and 12th: Bowling Alley Food Lady is having trouble deciding where to get off. She thought about 14th, but settles for 12th, before noticing a man across the street: "I'll stay on another stop. Don't let that guy on the bus. Keep me away from him."
"Sure. What's the deal with that guy?"
"Oh, he raped me once."
My attempt to offer condolences after that sentence grates in my ears. There just isn't enough I can say. I'm back to wanting to give everyone a hug.

Jackson and 8th: She does decide to get off here. She leans a little closer, revealing her upper tooth with a smile. "What do you think of what I'm wearing?"
"You look good," I say. Her flirtatious attitude makes me uncomfortable. I don't want her to get raped, but I also don't want to go out with her. I've had bowling alley food before. I didn't pay too much attention to her outfit, but as I drive away I notice that it is indeed a pretty good one- dark women's slacks with a vest over a collared shirt. Not bad.

This was Friday morning. I'm back on the 3/4, just for that day, for the first time in months. It's difficult to contain my enthusiasm. I drift down 3rd Avenue, trying not to look to psychotically happy. One of my favorite parts of the route is making the left onto James off of Third ("making a left because we're a 4," I say into the mic), and seeing the bus zone that's there come into view. That's where the seething masses await! One of the busier zones in the system, it is never empty for more than a few seconds all day, and usually contains a veritable, unending swarm of humanity, ready and willing to somehow fit onto your already full bus. We make it happen. A multitude of "hey's" and "hows it goin's" and "welcome's" as all of us enter the vehicle, doing our best to become an American version of a sardine-packed Chinese subway. We try hard, but somehow people here just don't cram as close together as they do in the far East. An African-American man who may have been a passenger comes up the outside of the bus to the front door and faces me on the sidewalk, putting his hands together as if in prayer, and says to me, "konichiwa," with a huge smile on his face. I smile back, returning the prayerful gesture, and he strides off, waving and saying 'have a good day' to the back half of the bus through the still-open back door. I smile at the randomness of his goodwill- I'm pretty sure he didn't know anyone back there.

Long before I ever drove the 3/4, which is known for its wheelchair-bound passengers, I remember a piece of advice given me by an older operator out of Bellevue Base. "You have to condition yourself to love getting wheelchairs and walkers," he said conspiratorially. "Don't hate it. Stop thinking about how long the lift takes, or that it's annoying to strap them in. First of all, it isn't annoying. It's easy. It's not the Bataan Death March. Second of all, don't sit there and heave a huge sigh to let them know that they're an inconvenience. They already know that. All day long, people have been telling them they're an inconvenience. You need to be the one guy who doesn't do that. Who just smiles and says, 'hey, man,' like they were a normal regular person. Which, of course, they are."

Unlike Atlantic, I didn't run into too many drivers with great attitudes at Bellevue Base, but there certainly were a couple, and he was one of them. He told me a number of other things that have proved invaluable. In any event, I was reminded of his words as I pulled up to Harborview, inbound to downtown, on a 4, and noticed a familiar face leaned over a walker, waiting for the bus.

I've had this lady many times before, and she remembers me "from way back when you was a little baby bus driver," as she often reminds me. She'll tell the bus about how young I looked when I started (and how young I still look). This is okay, I suppose. Heavier gal, late 50s, dark-skinned, hair in a bandanna, always with a walker. I enjoy how happy she usually is to see me, but today, she doesn't say anything about my age. When I ask her how her morning is, she gives me the mumble.

Me: "Could be better, could be worse?"
Her: "Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah, my husband just died."
"What? oh, no..."
"You remember him?"
"Yeah, I do."
"It was our thirtieth anniversary," and she's struggling to hold it together. Tears welling up. We talk a bit more about that, and then she says, "somebody stole my computer. Couple a addicts,"
I say, "where was this, Third and Bell?"
"Oh, as if you had to guess!"
And she tells me how she had been jumped, how she had identified their getaway car, informed the police, who did nothing, and about how she went searching for the car herself on Third Avenue, found it, reported the license number, and so on; about how the computer, a laptop, had been a gift from her daughter, and how she'd been computer illiterate but had "picked it up like that," loving the window that it provided, to learn and explore and keep in touch with friends. It was mainly the fact that it was a gift from her daughter that brought tears to her eyes. That, in conjunction with the death of her longtime husband, was putting her in a dark pit of a mood.

I let her get it all out, and then told her how impressed I was with her for locating the car, that it was useful that she reported it, as that would show up the next time- you know there'll be a next time- those guys get pulled over and questioned by police; tellin' her, "I bet that's not the last computer you'll ever have in your lifetime."
"Oh, you know it, baby,"
"Exactly. Don't let 'em get you down."
"I'm not gonna let 'em get me down."
"You did everything you could do, and it was worth it, and here you are still in one piece-"
"Man, I'm glad I got on your bus. You make me feel better." She pauses for a moment, looking at me, and then she goes, "they still makin' fun of you about your age?"
"Oh hell yes," I say, and she laughs. She thanks me again for talking, telling me how much better she feels. I can see the fresh slit scars on her wrists, where she tried to kill herself; she had shown them to me earlier in the conversation. That's why she was coming out of the hospital. "Don't let 'em get you down," I say once again as she rides the lift down to Third and Pike. I hope I see her again.

On the 4, outbound, nobody's left on the bus, and I whisk past Hill street on MLK, and there's two local youngsters, teenagers probably, hangin' out on the sidewalk. I wave to them but I have no expression, my face frozen in some sort of totally unnecessary zen zombie driving face. One of them makes eye contact with me, and offers a warm smile. He must know me. The split second is past as I drive by, but it was there. I really wish I could've been smiling then. Shoot. His was warm and real and genuine and contained the multitudes a tiny moment can easily handle. All I had in return was a blank stare, like a water buffalo who's not hungry. Hope he knows I smiled wide the moment I went by. Hope I get another chance. That guy's quick on his feet.

I have a couple of huge posts coming up, at least one of which will go up over the weekend. Meanwhile, I have a question-

Recently I came across a commendation given to me some time ago. This was when I was doing the 10. A passenger- I believe, an older gentleman- had written in, praising my attitude. The bus was utter chaos that day, and I had handled things in a way that impressed him. I'm quite tempted to reproduce his description of the day here, but I blush at his kind and generous description of my actions, and I suppose I ought to preserve the privacy of his writing. Anyways, it was great to get his feedback, and I was thrilled. It's one of the better commendations I've ever received, and I'm thankful that the gent took the time to write it.

But.

I was struck by one of the closing sentences in the commendation. It reads, "This is an exceptional human being. I would get to know him better if I could."

Now, my question to you is, what on earth does that mean? I'd get to know him better if I could? What societal pressures is he referring to that make him think he is unable to do just that? Do we live in a time and place where people cannot meet with others unless they have an agenda- political, romantic, or otherwise? Are we supposed to avoid contact unless there's a personal gain to be had, or an ongoing interaction to be created? Do we admire rather than interact, for fear of spoiling that which we enjoy observing, or because it's the easier path to take? I don't know myself. Maybe he was just passing through Seattle, or had a sore throat that day. I'm quite curious to hear your thoughts, whether in the comments below, or email, or the next time you and I chat. Don't be shy!

Rollin' back home on Rainier Avenue, deadheading to base. That's when the front of the bus says "Atlantic Base" or "To Terminal" or somesuch. It's a gray area as to whether we're required to pick up people during those stretches, but we can if we want to- and I, of course, want to.

At Rainier and State an odd quartet got on- a white woman between 30 and 40 and her toddler daughter, and two African-American gents who were slightly younger (20-30) than the mother and a lot taller. They all knew each other, and were in good spirits. The mother mysteriously kept apologizing for her friends, though I could find nothing amiss with their behavior. "I'm sorry," she said sheepishly, as one of them bounded on with a huge smile. I could tell they were happy to see me, and one of the gents, who had put a bicycle on the rack, seemed to revel in particular in the warmth of the good feeling on the bus.

You can tell when it's unusual for someone, for the bus driver to be such a friendly entity. The feeling of being comfortable. A look of benevolent discovery on his face, the pleasant joy of finding something unexpected- what's this, a smiling driver who looks 12! They all sat in the back and talked and laughed. Nobody else on the bus as we drift the rest of the way to downtown.

As he got off at 5th and Jackson, he turned to me and said, "I've got a Cadillac." I said, what? He pointed to his bicycle and said, "check it out," in a sort of humble tone, hesitant to be proud or gregarious with a driver. Sure enough, his bicycle had the Cadillac logo on the front and back, and as there wasn't anyone else on the bus I got out of the seat to look at it. For a moment it was just a couple of guys, standing around a bike. The toddler, oscillating between being distracted and watching us with curious eyes. I asked him if he put those on there, the logos, and he laughs- No, they really do make bicycles! You got a Cadillac, I said, and we- him, his apologetic white woman-friend, his decidedly unsober buddy, and the toddler- parted ways with many pleasantries exchanged. I drove away, wondering where they were off to next.

We're deep into the Judkins Park neighborhood, coming out the other side onto Martin Luther King, Jr. Way. It's dark out by now, and I turn the bus slowly around the corner. There's a couple standing there, at the zone. A younger dark-skinned fellow with braids, maybe mid-twenties, facing me, and his Caucasian girlfriend hugging him, her face buried in his shoulder, perhaps to stay warm. It's winter, and it's quiet- you can hear the hum of the sodium-vapor streetlamps. The echo of the larger city, in the distance. I gesture, rolling slowly, saying it with my hand- "you want this bus?" With one of his hands that's around her, he gestures back- no. I give him a wave, "okay," and he gives me the peace sign, two fingers. I smiled back to his upward nod, as the electric bus whisked away into the night, making hardly a sound. What I liked about that moment was that it was an acknowledgement between two people that was so minute, occupying such a short space of time, that it will hardly ever be shared or known by anyone else- likely not even his girlfriend, who was standing right there but facing away. And yet, it did happen, two people registering in each other's brains, for a sliver of a moment, living in space and time. Someone once said that we prove our existence by existing in the minds of others. Solidarity in the nighttime hour, underneath a streetlamp.

Sometimes when you're doing a split shift you try to keep yourself in reserve, the idea being that you can somehow dole out your energy in small dollops for the whole day. Not too long ago I was driving a week-long morning piece on the 2/13, which began at 4:31am, in addition to my regular shift on the 7, which gets done at 8:30pm. 16 hours is the maximum "spread" that your split shift can be, and you definitely feel those 16 hours, even if there is a 5 hour break in the middle. I thought I would do the "energy in reserve" thing, and go easy on the 2/13, hold back a little, and quietly make it through the mornings without running people over. It seemed like a good idea at the time, especially because the 2 has the tightest schedule ever (no break longer than 10 minutes on this shift). I put it into action by not engaging in very much conversation, having a quieter "air" about me, and thinking of it as an endurance test of sorts- endless loops on the 2. I still said hi to everyone, but in a (more) silent way.

What a dumb idea this was.

Halfway through the week it occurred to me that I must be giving off the appearance of someone who is miserable. I wasn't, but what else are you to make from watching a young, bleary-eyed fellow who doesn't say much, mechanically says hello, who talks in a flat and tired voice and stares into the middle distance at red lights?

From riding the bus often, I know that the mood of the driver affects everything. When your driver puts his head on the steering wheel and sighs heavily (as I once witnessed), it's hard for you, the passenger, to continue having a great sunny day. There's a guy five feet away from you who's obviously miserable, and it's infectious. I certainly wasn't going to that extreme, and was probably still happier-looking than most operators, but for my own standards, I was getting too close to that precipice. I was a non-singing, non-dancing lackadaisical route 2 sourpuss. What was up? Retardation, that's what. For lack of a better phrase.

Many of the commendations I get make a point of the driver being present. "This guy makes eye contact with everybody," they'll say. It makes a difference to them. He is there, he is open and present with the people. I thought to myself, in Quiet Route 2 Mode, am I in a time machine? Is this how I'll be ten years from now? No! I can't allow it!

I once told a passenger a couple years ago, on the 43, that if they ever saw me in ten years, and if I was a grump by then, that I wanted him to punch me in the face, and remind me of this conversation. I forget who the guy was, but I'm holding that passenger to his word, and I don't want to get punched!

On the next trip I decided to make an effort, actually live a little, and return to the standard Nathan self. I looked people squarely in the eye. In your frontal lobe are what are called "mirror neurons-" they respond in kind to what's presented before them. It's why a depressed person around you can make you depressed, and why you yawn when other people yawn. I projected out positive energy- not just "how are you" or "hey" but "hey" with conviction- and it started to come back in spades. Eye contact. "You're so cheerful," said a nurse, excited.

I decided to talk with the older regular who'd sat there before, about the wire, trolley buses, smooth driving, wondering why the bus was so empty, where he was headed. We laughed about flying out of bus doors (how the conversation got to that point I'm not sure; you'd have to have been there, I guess). I quieted down a screaming young lady who was embarrassed at having to go the ER. Bringing it back to a better place. That look, that double-take where they notice how happy- or is the word present- you are.

On another trip we were "late, crowded, and fun," as I like to put it, having a conversation with the front of the bus, myself and a couple older ladies riffing about local companies engaged in rackets involving business attire that's loaned out for interviews (the things you end up talking about). Wonder if that pretty girl in the back can hear us. More than that, I wonder, or rather I hope, that they all take something away from it, walking into the mid-morning air, energized in a small or big way, happiness growing larger, expanding them to their potential.

Whether or not it affects them, I know it energizes me, and I feed off that energy in a way much more useful and fulfilling than my original "energy in reserve" idea. Here, I'm making the energy as I go along, building it with myself and others, and the tight 2 schedule doesn't matter anymore- I'm taking my break while doing the route, just hangin' out with my people.