Sho Luv stops by again.

We're discussing a situation "where I believe some profilin' was takin' place," as he puts it. He'd been chatting on the phone on an Eastside route.

"Were you loud?"
"No, man, I was conductin' a conversation in a regular tone,"
"Good, okay, good,"
"When the driver turns and says, 'you need to get off the bus. I need you offa my bus.' And I said, driver, what I'm doin' wrong?' And he says, 'this is my bus. And I say you got to get offa my bus 'cause you're talkin' on the phone.' But check this out. There's another lady also talkin' on her phone. He don't say nothin' to her!"
"And you weren't bein' loud now,"
"No, neither me nor the lady was loud. I think about stuff like that."
"That's cool. Lemme guess, she was white."

"She was white. And he keeps sayin,' 'this is my bus,' and I say, ' Driver, I don't think you can kick me out over this. You got another person here talkin' on the phone just the same as me.' So we wait around while he calls security."
"He calls the coordinator over talkin' on the phone? I can't believe that!" Definitely the Eastside. No downtown driver would bother; there's too much else to worry about.

"And here's the kicker, right? She, the lady herself,"
"The lady herself,"
"Asks him why he's tryna get rid a me and not her, though we both doin' the same thing!"
"Well, that's it then, man! Case closed! If we got her goin' on the record like that, well, if that's not profiling I don't know what is! What happened when the supervisor got there?"
"Nothin'. He came over and rolled his eyes."
"Nothin' else to do. Huge waste of resources."
"And driver just kep' saying, 'this is my bus. I can do what I want on my bus.'"
I steer around a pothole. "Man, I'm sorry that took place. That's an embarrassment, in this day and age. I apologize. And you know, the thing is, it is not his bus."
"No, it's not,"
"This bus does not belong to me; it belongs to the people,"
"Exactly!"
"My entire paycheck comes from all these good folks paying taxes. Without them I would be nowhere... You know he doesn't drive that thing home and park it in his garage at night..."

We laugh over the image. Both of us are the choir, and we're preaching to each other. There can be a benefit in that sometimes. I can sense a load released from his chest as he bids me farewell. Some measure of balance has been restored.

It is but a distant memory now.

Elementary school, off for the weekend. I was on a 358 (a brand new route at the time, replacing the old 6/359), and we had nearly completed the long trip in from the northern reaches of Aurora to downtown- but as we've noted before, it's never too late for things to go terribly awry.

Here we are at Pike, approaching the zone, everyone rising to deboard, when we realize there's a man on the floor, convulsing in the aisle. It's another epileptic seizure. Even at that age, I'd already witnessed the same on other buses (interestingly, almost exactly the same incident would take place over a decade later, at the same zone on the same route- except in that case the guy wasn't wearing pants!). 

While we waited for aid to arrive, I wandered outside the coach. Passengers were still filing out, and the driver, a thin, mild-mannered white face in his fifties, was out of his seat, moving about inside as he assisted passengers. I watched through the windows. He seemed to be looking for something. 

A young black man next to him, dressed in dark clothing, reached to the floor and pretended to start putting something in his jacket. Then he handed whatever it was to the driver, and they both began laughing together. The man said something, and the driver responded, and they laughed harder.

"Must be 358 humor," I thought to myself, not understanding. My elementary-age self stood there a moment longer, pondering. This I had not seen before. The seizure I could easily grasp; it was familiar. But what about this? Don't those two age-status-race-authority roles usually avoid each other, or ignore one another, or act in opposition?

I was a child. All children are born knowing race has no worth in the measure of a man. I could already see that adults often felt differently; but not these two. They were behaving just like my classmates on the school playground- which is to say, completely ignorant of race and class.

My heart beat faster, and a joy rose up in my throat. Looking at them, anything felt possible. Opposite ends closing a loop, existing in union, laughing together like a couple of regular fellows. Images like this can have quite an impact. They give shape and heft to the notion that surfaces count for little. Those two men will never know the impact their interaction had on my young self. It was only appropriate that the sun was shining.

I still feel that rush when I see such tableaus, or take part in such an interaction. The differences in culture, speech, clothing and the rest- when I see these ignored in favor of the commonalities of being human, a deep hunger is satisfied in me. It's very nearly a physical sensation, this world-affirming delight, and it thrills me unreasonably; this story is the first instance I can recall experiencing such a feeling. You'll have to forgive me the number of times I've written about people of different race or income groups interacting harmoniously. I never tire of it. In light of how often we see the opposite, I'm compelled to share. 


PS- That's me in the photograph, around 12 years old, wishing I was driving that (now-defunct) 4000 series! 

First day back on the 358. We're filling up, and cruising into Virginia. A ragtag, kaleidoscopic assemblage is milling about, as usual. 

I see gold teeth glinting in the crowded afternoon, and can't help grinning to myself. I know who that is. 

"This boy don't HAAA' no license!" he hollers, very nearly frightening the people on the sidewalk as they file in. 
"Heeyyy!" I yell with enthusiasm. From the looks on the passengers' faces, I can see my response is unexpected; most of them don't know me. Yet.

"Somebody call th' authorities, we got us a underage bus driver here!"
It's his refrain, and I enthusiastically play along.
"I got no idea what I'm doin'! I was walking home from elementary school, somebody gave me uniform, and I found this empty bus here..."
"Don't let this boy get away with this! You see this little kid here?" he says to unsuspecting lady.
Mock despair: "I know how to drive trolley buses, but I can't grow no beard!"
"Somebody done gave him th' uniform. You know he only old enough for a learner's permit!"
"Good to see you again."
"How's it goin'?"

A ladyfriend of his boarded with him, and she calls him from the back to join her, but he's too elated by the budding sense of community at the front: "Hang on, girl, I'm talkin' to my boy here!" 
"That's my sister," he says in a practically apologetic tone. "You at least gotta grow a mustache or somethin', this' gettin' outta hand,"
"Oh, you know it. I need a top hat. Glad to see you're still around!"

We talk of our shared hometown of LA, where he had recently visited. We glory in recognizing the streets and locations the other is talking about. He tells me of a club at Sunset and Ivar he was particularly pleased to visit- "we got there early, 'cause it's crowded. Got to get there around 4 or so."

"Hang on. This place is jumpin' at 4pm?" 
"Oh yeah. And lemme tell you, them younger boys was hatin' on me, man!" Meaning the women found him attractive.
"See, you still got it!"
"Those lovely ladies walk right past them, comin' over to me!"
"Look at you!" In a more serious tone I say, "confidence. That's what it is."
"Yeah. How you carry yourself."
"Don't matter how old you are, all the other stuff people say,"
"Yeah, I took my son, and he was gettin' angry! At me!"
We laugh over the absurdity of the situation. Outside a diviner is walking amongst some construction rubble, evidently searching for precious metals. 
"Oh man, will you look at that. Lookin' for gold at Aurora and 65th!"
"I think maybe someone's goin' home empty handed tonight!"
"Poor guy better hang on to that day job!"

His sister comes up to the front after a time, and I introduce myself. "Lovely to meet you, young lady. Thank you both for stoppin' by!"
She's all compliments. We continue blabbing on matters of minimal consequence.

There was a transcendance in the air, something special; the chatter was as profane as ever, slurred words and dumb observations adding up to something larger. They say transcendance lies at the intersection of the mundane and the sublime. We weren't really talking about clubs or underage jokes; we were expressing a generosity for each other, a respect and love for this happy life, strengthening the bonds of attitude, connections between each other and between ourselves and the fading twilight, the fresh-cut grass, the buzzing gnats and the world at large. That was the meaning of those sounds. 

Complimenting Sho Luv's (incredibly, the name he goes by) hat meant more than that. It was an affirmation of years spent on this Earth, amongst each other- laughing, complaining, talking wisdom and nonsense. There is something elusive underneath such chatter, at times better hinted at through surface talk than with the blocky nerve endings of confessional dialogue. It's not about the content of the words, but their texture, the sliding meanings that drift underneath them.

From this conversation, I probably don't need to point out that this is on a 358, but I suppose I will anyway! We're southbound, between 160th and 155th, by Rich's Used Car Corner and Chevron Gas. There's an older woman with a sorrowful voice who would like a question answered.

"Bus driver?"
"Yeah?"
"How come people don't have tails like other animals?"
"What's that?"
"How come people don't have tails like other animals?"
"I'm sorry, I'm having trouble hearing you."
"How come people don't have tails like other animals?"
"Uh,"
The man next to her, in shades, handlebar mustache, and cowboy hat: "She's asking why people don't have tails."

"You know, that's a great question. I have a couple different answers for that," I say in a meaningful voice, working my mind into a space where this question is entirely reasonable. "One is that tails in animals are often for balance, but in animals that stand vertically like us, we don't need a tail because it would throw us off balance, but-" into the mic: "next stop is 155th, by Safeway-" and back with her- "but in more horizontally-oriented animals like cats, you need tails to balance things out so they can move around easy."

"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Have you ever heard of anyone who had a tail?"
"Yeah, actually.. there's a guy who had surgery to make himself look like a cat, and another guy who got surgery to look like a lizard, but I don't know if either of them have tails." (Further research reveals they don't; nor was I aware of cases of abnormal vestigial tail-like growths. I'm falling behind on my human tail knowledge).  

"Can he move his tail?"
"The lizard guy?"
"No, the cat guy. Can he move his tail back and forth?"
"You know, I'm not sure. I don't think so. It's just  made of, it's not, well, I don't even know if he has one."
"Oh."
"Lizards can regrow their tails."
"Why?"
"If they fall off."
Cowboy hat: "I think we don't have tails because then we would need different pants!"
"You know, you're right. That's gotta be it," I say. "Be too much trouble. I mean, where you gonna put that thing?"
The lady is still worried. "Have you ever known or heard of anybody who was buried alive?"

Cowboy hat takes over, answering in the affirmative. Then we talk about his cat, which he firmly believes is a mix between a Lynx and a jackrabbit ("well, I think I'm sure,"), and who is tailless. He confirms it by showing me a picture on his phone. 
"Excellent," I say.

We continue down the wide expanses, having rational, thoughtful conversations about tails, cemeteries, pigs and helicopters. The high school kids from Ingraham get on, watching my smile- and my straight face. I'm in wonderful company. 

Hello, Friends.

There's something I'd like to tell you. I am writing a book building on the stories on this blog. I'm very much looking forward to when you can read it!

Enjoy the day,
Nathan

When I was young(er!) I used to come up with excuses to plan elaborate bus rides around the city. They were the flimsiest of reasons. "I think I'll use the bathroom," I remember telling my parents once in Redmond. I then proceeded to get on the 251 to Seattle and the 307 to Lake City, a journey totaling over two hours. There's a restroom in the Fred Meyer there, after all. To my preteen mind it made sense. Evidently I didn't need to go too badly! 

Photographers do this. In the tradition of Dorothea Lange, I once drove back 50 miles to take a picture of a snow-covered cornfield in Wyoming I had passed hours before. 

But sometimes it wasn't about the camera so much as the unquenchable thirst of being, in the Heideggerian sense of Dasein. To be made alive by existing as observer and portion of the writhing human maelstrom... I know I learned a lot while in school, but I have a sneaking suspicion I gained more by wallowing about in the real world of the street, joyriding on the 7. Too much of one or the other would be a loss; I'm thankful for having done both. 

Once my friend Brian called me. "Hey," he said. "I kinda feel like going to Eastern Washington. Do you?"
"Yeah, come on man, let's go," I replied. I didn't ask why until we'd been on the road nearly an hour. The ostensible reason for this expedition?
"I need to get some hot sauce," Brian intoned. 

Oh, yeah. That's reason enough for me! There's a fruit stand on Thorp highway that has the best hot sauce in all the land, according to him. We talked the road up all the way, and found ourselves on dirt pathways in forested mountains we never knew existed. I made what I thought were some excellent photographs, and we had a grand old time. The clouds out there...

The impulse that leads me on such paths is not unlike the one which led me to email my friend in Colorado before heading out the door in Seattle to my car with nothing but a map,  some CDs, camera and film. The email was a note which read, "Anna- I'm coming over. See you soon." A couple weeks and several hundred photographs later, we met at her residence in Fort Collins and had a terrific lunch.

I don't do things like this all the time- and yet, in a smaller way, I do. Road trips fuel the soul in ways that are obvious; but the engine behind that thirst, the great and endless search to pierce through the fabric of our known understanding, to confront "the unknown-" this hunger is the same as that behind spontaneous road trips or nonsensically circuitous expeditions around King County.

When I travel to distant lands, I find what I remember most clearly are not the notable objects and moments I so love to photograph. Those memories become clouded by the photos themselves, which take over in my mind. No, what  sticks are the moments in-between, when the camera wasn't available. The day's last light peeking through the blinds, casting the shadows of a potted plant against a wall; a man and a woman squatting on a marble floor outside, rinsing pans over a washbasin. An empty parking lot flashing by through the train windows, maybe somebody walking around out there. 

Bus driving might seem like a monotonous job, but it really isn't. The 358 and routes like it aren't just different every day; they change with each passing minute. I try to be present for all of that.

Traveling in new or changing territory, be it near or far, is unique from all other human experience by its definition: it is the act of being confronted with an unending stream of moments, places and things, for the first and probably the last time. 

It's about as close as we can get to the sensation of early childhood, where you were bombarded with so much new stimuli, and attempting to process it all gave you that heady rush we adults call being thrilled to be alive. That is the reason to go to Thorp Fruit Stand. It has nothing to do with hot sauce. It's the reason to get on the next bus, no matter what it is, having no clue where it's going; a reason to take the long way home. You never know what you might see. 

And yet, this craving runs deeper than merely a desire for the new. It is a thirst to find the confirmation that yes, we can and do know ourselves to exist. Regardless of the surroundings or challenges. We throw ourselves into new situations thinking we're searching for differences, but what we really want to see is the commonalities that still remain, because they prove our existence and indicate a recognizable structure in the morass of contemporary human life. 

There can be great comfort in this. You see behind the layers now, layers which you thought defined you. You've taken the variables away, searching for the unknown, and there you are- all the more yourself.