He's one of the street guys you see around Martin Luther King- sometimes Walden, sometimes Forest. There's a few of them. This guy is bald, missing a few teeth, always with a ready smile. African American, 50, thin, with a lanky gait and wearing a couple of sweatshirts. "My son!" he yells when he sees me today.
"Heeeyyy!" I respond, playing along. He sits in the wonderful chat seat and is overwhelmed by the positive energy making itself known on the bus.
"Every time I get on his bus," he says, talking to the others gathered around the front. It's hardly a bus in times like this; it's a living room, and we're relaxing on upholstered couches sharing popcorn, watching the game. "Every time. I never seen another driver make people so happy. I get on here, and I just feel good, man. I see you smilin,' I get up in here," he continues, pausing, searching for the words, interrupted by his own surge of well-being. "If I can make someone happy, make somebody smile, then I've fulfilled my purpose."
"'Cause that's huge."
"It is huge. It's inspiring. Look at this guy," he says to the others, pointing at me. "He's my son."
Two Caucasian high schoolers look at me, then at him: "Is this your token white son?"
"Hell yeah. My kids could be white."
"It's the 21st century," I say.
"That's right."
"It's all happening."
"I got two daughters, one of 'em's 5'9", the other one 6'7".
"Six seven?!" I reply, and we continue talking about his family. He has two tall daughters, and he's the short one. They're both in college. He was in the service. The tall one is doing computer programming. We cruise through the neighborhood, streaking along the wire, dotted lane lines flitting by on either side. Darren drives his 7 past the other way, looking amused at my too-big smile. It's a beautiful night.

The Ride Free Area died tonight not with a bang, but with a whisper. I have no tumultuous stories involving its demise, which took place at 6:59pm today, ending a 38-year tradition. Like many large events in one's life, it was defined not by a cataclysmic parting of the seas but rather by the simple and pleasant banality of everyday existence. I drove down Third Avenue, and all was as it always is, me throwing open all three doors and welcoming the whirling masses, glancing in the mirror as my friends the service workers, thugs, nurses, students, janitors, bankers, managers, grandmothers, engineers and freeloaders stepped on, slinking through the back doors and looking this way and that, ascertaining which was the best seat for them. It was just like any other day on the street- only there was the thought inside me, and perhaps in others too, that it won't ever be like this again.

Some have defined the sublime as the intersection between the mundane and the transcendent. I'm not about to say that the end of the Ride Free zone was sublime, but many of the great moments on the bus fulfill that definition.

I was driving the last trip on my 7, and a middle-aged African-American man was thanking me profusely, ostensibly for the transfer I gave him, but that wasn't really it; I think what impressed him more was this warm, shared spirit we had built, lighting up the darkness of a dimly lit bus on Rainier Avenue. Some of those old Bredas are dark inside, as not all the interior lights work (drivers: you know, where the switch goes both ways but neither turns on all the lights, only half), and that, combined with the ever-present litter on the 7, odd smells, stained floors and knife-scratched windows and seats- all this combines to form an atmosphere that could easily tip into a very unpleasant realm. In fact, it almost seems ideally suited for that.

But here we are, having built the happy bus, what with friendly hellos and waves and announcements- it isn't important that they understand what I'm saying into the mic so much as they hear the tone of the driver's voice- that the guy in charge of this thing is happy, kind, welcoming, whatever label we want to give it. He's in a good mood. That's what I'm really saying when I say that the next stop is Andover Street, close to Safeway.

The most unlikely people say thank you, and the timbre of their voices carry a strength of meaning that humbles me. A hispanic man, always dressed in black, with an interesting face, a face you'd want to photograph, quietly saying, "you have a wonderful evening, bro." Self-proclaimed ghetto boys taking a moment to be genuine. "You have a good rest of your shift." To hear such a thing blows my mind. Kindness towards another, for no gain. I know they have that in them, of course, but the surprise is that they choose to show it. A young African man, thirties, speaks softly, with an unexpectedly clear accent, thanks me and wishes me a good evening with an earnestness that bespeaks tremendous mutual respect.  It's an honor to be counted as an equal among these people.

After the fellow who was profusely thankful for the transfer and the goodwill stepped off, the man getting off right behind him turned to me and said, "you're rare." He's tall, thin, forties, black American, with shades and clean athletic sweats. Something about this fleeting exchange hits me, and I remember the moment lasting longer than it did. His bald head and shades catch what little light there is, this tall human form lurking in the half-light above me, kindness, and respect for kindness making themselves known in the dark. "You're rare," he says again. Maybe he wants to make sure I heard him. "Keep it up."

It's these small, fleeting moments that live on in your memory. The details. Today was my last day on the 7, and on the wire in general, for a while- you probably know that I was forced out to North Base for Winter shake-up- and I've been savoring these last days for the great life experience that they are. Being out there, amongst people who know me, a city I've become part of. I unfortunately can't write about something that happened earlier this week, but for those of you who were there, that was fantastic. You live for moments like that- small and unremarkable when retold, but massive in a personal way.

Today was no more or less different than a typical day on the 7 for me. It was lighter than usual, and there was minimal Friday night madness in the Valley. As I said earlier, there were no monumental climaxes to be had. And yet- there were, as there always are, those moments, which tonight took on a pathos of things ending, color drifting away in the fading light. A couple street perennials and I on the sidewalk at inbound McClellan, joking around together as I wait for my schedule to catch up. Me, interrupting the automatic talking lady to do my own announcements. Turning right onto 7th from Virginia, making sure I have enough momentum to clear that deadspot. A young man and his Caucasian girlfriend at Holden, standing at the front, listening and talking with me briefly but eagerly, happy to be a part of it all.

Ah, yes. Not a bad way to pass the time.

I'm sitting at a red, at Cedar and 4th, eastbound. A sports car convertible flies across the intersection and slams to a halt just opposite me, blocking traffic. The driver, a man in his 40s, leans out of his open top and says to me:

"What day is it?"
"It's the 20th."
"That's right. Thanks."

And then he roars off, slamming to another stop when he reaches the end stop sign at of the block.

---

Not all of my 7 passengers are people I would invite over for dinner. We'll put it that way. I love the guys, don't get me wrong, but I only have enough groceries to go around. My place isn't that big. The transitory nature of the bus can be a virtue- you do have to learn how to hang out with everybody, but you only have to hang out with everybody for a set amount of time. On routes like the 12, if you've got someone being bothersome, it's not a huge issue, because they'll be gone in 10 minutes. Big deal. On the 7, however, they might be there for an hour. It's a long ride to Rainier Beach.

One such lady shows up periodically. Like many problem passengers, she's cordial to me and rude to the riders. American, dark-skinned, 50s, not too many teeth, perennially drunk, hair covered with a wrap-around shawl. Today she responded to my greeting in kind ("I'm doing excellent!"), and reminded me that she loved me, and that she "got me covered, anytime you need anythinganytimeyouneedfivethousanddollars I be there for you." I thank her and tell her that I might be calling her up for that five thousand. Beer, spilling out her jacket pocket, soiling her pants and dripping onto the floor. It flows back and forth, forming rivulets in those non-slip grooves on the Breda floor. Fleetingly, it crosses my mind that a biologist would have a field day with the floor of one of these beasts. The tactile residue of a million stories, evidence of happiness, sadness, anger, greed, love, sympathy, loss and all the rest.

She slurs, "I got it for you 'cause I love you bus driver, I got five thousand ten thousand whatever you need just call me twenty thousand. Don' gotta worry 'bout nothin.'"
"Now that's really generous of you."
"I got, I got,"
"I might have to take you up on that. Might have to give you a call."
"You need something twenty thousand," she yells bodily, getting excited. "I take care a you!"

Later she sits down near the front and argues with a few passengers. She's larger than life, a beast in the cage of unhappiness, or an embryo pushing out, clawing at the walls of its shell. Manic energy and no place to go. When the passenger next to her gets up to sit further away, she says, "yeah, walk away. Act like you scared a me. Retardo." She adds the label at the end as if it's a devastating and terrible revelation. You know, like revealing someone to be a communist sympathizer in the 50s.

I can't help but smile, and glancing in the mirror I see two young African girls watching me, watching the situation, with rapt attention. These are the days memories are made of. Our friend continues to badger the people around her, and they're skilled at this sort of thing- you get the impression they've been on the 7 before. They ease her away from conflict as many times as she steers back into it. Her open beer can somehow shifts, turning upside down in her jacket and guzzling out, recoloring her groin and shoes.

When she finally gets up to deboard ("lemme off the bus here, driver," she says to my relief), clear down at Orcas, I can feel the entirety of the bus paying attention. I remember the whites of the eyes of the two girls, watching and wondering what the driver will do, and what she'll do. But there is no explosive confrontation. She simply yells, "I got no bus transfer today baby," and I say "hey, I appreciate you telling me. Thanks for bein' honest."
"Oh Ah always be real wit' you, bus driver, you don't gotta worry 'bow me."
"Well thank you for stoppin' by."
"I always like your bus. I got no money," she adds, forgetting her prior offer of twenty thousand dollars. You wonder if she's trying to goad you, by bringing up her lack of fare again. I'm not falling for it.
"Hey, I appreciate you bein' honest. Le's put it on the tab, how's that sound."
"Aw thank you bus driver," she says, in a way that somehow just doesn't endear. Maybe it's the beer on her pants.
"Yeah, we'll put it on the tab." As she stands there listlessly, I 'tell her to leave-' that is, I say- "I see you next time!"

After she leaves, the tightrope slackens off, and you can feel a collective sigh of relief. I look in the mirror and then straight ahead, smiling to myself. That sort of releases the crowd. Laughter. I say, "hey, it's better than TV!"
"I know that's right," someone chimes in.
"Daytime TV, oh yeah."

Will I let her on in the future? I will. I have already, in fact. Why, one might ask. I have no set answer. It is simply my nature, to give them the benefit of the doubt. She has been civil on the bus before, and there's a chance she just might be again. It's not a very big chance, but it exists nonetheless. Looking through her eyes you remember: she used to be a little girl once. There's still a little bit of that somewhere inside her.

The two African girls step off at Graham, wearing New Balance tennis shoes under their traditional garb, both beaming out smiles of warmth and acceptance and what else, a gladness at the sight of positivity in the face of negative energy. Practically lighting up the whole neighborhood.

Over in the Photography section~

These are not my best pictures of people. These are the ones- and there are many more- where something registered. You were party to something, present in this moment that will never again repeat. Some are from the ancient, living past, and some are from a month ago. But in all cases, whether it's someone I knew and loved for years, or a passersby on the street, it's small moments like these I cherish. We gaze curiously out at life, and there are fleeting glimpses that feel like they contain answers to something, or details heretofore unnoticed. There is the suggestion in these moments of something larger, a shape we can sense but can't define. I don't mean to equalize the great relationships of my life and the unknown masses in a way that's demeaning- I can't express how thankful I am for the time I've had with each of those special people- rather, I feel I can learn from everyone, strangers, friends, lovers, past and present. I am the result of these moments and thoughts, shaped by the answers, or the questions, they offer.

Rainier and Orcas. It was an afterthought. Middle aged mixed gentleman stepping out, and I had said to him my customary "have a good one," to no response. But after he steps off he returns to the present, registering my gesture. A slight turn of the head. "You have a good night too," he says, glancing back. You almost want to reach out and grab those moments, snatch them out of the air and put a lid on the bottle before they float away.

Similar but equally affecting situation happens with a thug hopping out at Holden, busy on the phone, his mind somewhere else- but enough of him is still here to hear me, and I hear his "you too" aimed at me, amongst the bustle of an ongoing dialogue.

Working man with a rake and a bucket of tools runs up at the last minute at Henderson. Often runners don't need your bus- if they did, they'll typically  have been at the stop already; many's the time I've waited for a runner only to have him get off at the next stop, or somehow ignore that there's another bus right behind me. Having said that, however, there are those moments when you can tell this person would really, really benefit from making your bus, and this guy, Working Man, was one of those. It's evident he's been working long hours, and I say, "All done for the day?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Right on. Congratulations."
"Oh, you said it."
"You're a workin' man."
You can sense he appreciates being complimented as a working man. The solidarity of it. Of a worldview formed in hard work, in the tactile nature of most blue-collar professions, of the knowledge of performing something valuable- where you're actually doing something. Sometimes I have difficulty explaining to people that I am out here by choice. Someone on a bus once asked me,"you gonna get your GED?" "I have a four-year degree from the UW," I responded. The guy looked at me as if he just got paralyzed. He temporarily lost the power of speech, as if his brain couldn't process the implications of what he was looking at. "What?!" he said, as if someone had just insulted his family. There are essential jobs and there are non-essential jobs. Working Man and I smile. I hope he is proud of the implements of his profession.

"Wassup widdit," a young man inquires as he boards. "Not a lot," I say. As he and his ladyfriend deboard later at Henderson, I wish the line of passengers well. You can't say the same phrase to every single person. I throw out the "take it easy"s, "have a good one"s, "be safe"s and endless other variations of goodbye with abandon. I overhear the lady say to her friend, "man, he got a line for everybody!"

"Next stop is at Othello, by the gas station," I say. There's a classic Cadillac convertible blocking the exit to the gas station. Sunlight gleaming off polished surfaces, glare filling out the space between shadows. The driver and passenger of the car are exchanging places. I recognize one of them- it's Gregarious Basketball Player Man (a fun fellow; mentioned here), and I honk as I roll slowly by. His whole body lights up as he yells, to his friend's momentary consternation, "That's my guy!!! That's my guy!!"

"You are nice man," a first-generation African grandfather says. I tend not to wait for people when I'm doing a frequent route, but for him I did. I try not to be preferential, but how do you resist that smile? Lines creasing into goodness, transforming his weathered skin, an expression he's worn off and on since childhood.

"You always so nice! I love riding your bus!" They blurt it out without premeditation, two girls getting off at Rose, and it comes out with a bald honesty and enthusiasm that you couldn't replicate.

Me: "How's your night goin?"
Mid 40s, Rainier and Genessee: "Oh, not too great."
"Uh-oh! That's not good. I appreciate the truthful answer. But still."
"Yeah, I can't complain."
"What happened, if I may ask?"
"I be checking up on my daughter, she got into an altercation last night."
"Oh, no."
"Yeah."
"That's terrible. She's okay?"
"Yeah, she's okay. She can take care of herself pretty well."
"Well, it's good of you to come out here to check up on her."
"Hey man, it's just what we do."
"Gotta look out for each other."
"I know that's right."
Beat. He lapses into silence, watching me meet and greet. He doesn't bring up his problems anymore.
"You got class, man. Keep it up."
A sense of rejuvenation in his tired voice.

"HAPPY MAN! HAPPY MAN!" greets the old Chinese man at Fisher Place. I saw him at the zone as I was pulling up, and waved big. He's been on my bus before. Both of us smile way too much.

On occasion I get to chat with "the Great Todd," as I call him. He's a newer full-timer (and highly skilled Brazilian jujitsu master) doing his tour of duty on the 7 at night for this shakeup. He rode my bus when he was just starting the 7 and I was glad at the chance to show him a few things. I really like when other drivers come hang out on my bus. Today, parked outside of Saar's Market at Henderson Street, he asks how I'm doing. I respond as I often do, with a low rumble: "eeexcellent!" He laughs. "You are one strange guy," he says.

I scribble down notes on transfers at red lights sometimes so I remember all these little moments. I'm looking at a note right now that says "kind of ugh lady tries to give me a kiss, then tries to kiss waiting passenger afr. lady, she and i share a weird/grosss smile."

That about sums it up.

"Kind of Ugh Lady" was getting out at Walden, really enjoyed the ride, and wanted to express that by kissing me. In my opinion this was entirely unnecessary. Her corpulent, significant form leaned toward me in a hug, gently tilting the bus with her weight (or so I imagined). I restrained myself from saying "no kissing on the 7," and instead turned my head away and thanked her. I locked eyes with the passenger waiting outside who'd been watching this awkwardness- that's the "Waiting Passenger Afr(ican) Lady." It didn't matter that she and I didn't speak each other's languages- it was obvious we were both thinking the same thing, which was, "eewww!" She avidly stepped away from Kind of Ugh, who approaches her with similar intentions. WPAL got on and we burst into laughter.

A young African boy standing at Rainier and Seward Park Avenue recognizes me as I make the turn. "Yosef!!!" I thunder out, as if announcing a starting lineup. "Nathan!!!" he screams in reply. The guys who always stand around by the haircut place glance over, confused at this heedless expression of joy. Yosef had been on the bus earlier that day.

Same with another young guy, except this time his name is Ahnus;

A mild-mannered teenager in the requisite thug getup comes up before we hit Cloverdale inbound, urgently asking to be let off. A group of girls had just walked past the bus. I look around, wondering if something's amiss.
"Sure," I say to him, slowing down.
He says, "I think I fell in love, goin' the other way, as we crossed paths." I smile. I can get into that.
"Like ships passing," I say.
"Exactly." There's something of a poet in this young man. Appearance means nothing.

An older East African woman in the chat seat, silent with a friendly air. She watches me, head tilted, smiling through wizened eyes at my interaction with the different people. I meet their dialogues halfway, without consciously thinking about it.

I'm waiting at 5th and Jackson to start my shift. A man sitting in the back of another 7 is gesturing wildly through the window at me. "YOU'RE FIRED," he yells through the glass. It's that guy! We exchange waves. (I've mentioned him in the past when he was on my 3; the phrase is his new trademark).

Androgynous Safeway Passenger gets on at Andover, as (s)he is often wont to do. He/she always has a great, warm air, as if excited to be here. I know I am. I think the fact that she's just getting off work helps. Dressed like a man, shorter with glasses, body full of energy, coiled like a spring.

Jermain's friend is standing at Walden, not at the zone but waiting to cross the street, and we recognize each other at the same instant- big wave, his "heeyyy!" still audible through the glass as I drive by.

Again, waiting at 5th and Jackson, I'm waiting on the sidewalk and someone in the back of another 7 recognizes me- this time it's Jermain, all smiles- who I will miss. We do a through-the-window fistpound. The girl sitting next to him watches wide-eyed. The next 7 rolls by, and Big Guy is sitting in the back, and he recognizes me as well, his dreads flailing in the air as he does a double take, and his crooked teeth flash in an expansive smile. With much silent gesturing we communicate "hey," "what time you come back around?," and "other side 5:30."

Carl with glasses comes up from the back once he recognizes my voice on the speakers. "I just had to come up and say hey!"

I'm riding the 41 home, exhausted but happy. I'm standing on the packed bus by the back door, looking out the glass at the platform at Convention Place. There's a young couple sitting together on one of those white benches. They're trying to lean heads against each other, but he's a little tall, and she's a little short, and they have to kind of crane their necks to make it happen, looks maybe a little uncomfortable- but they don't care. It's worth it.