"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.