"You got one more comin'!"

I look in the right mirror, and it's true, there's a streak of red of blue, running for me at Rainier and Letitia. I'm feeling generous, and wait with doors open. In a few seconds he's on board, breathing heavy and grinning. He sits down in front, a high schooler in primary colors, athletic gear by the looks of it, close-shaved dark head and a black backpack. 

"Hey!" I want him to know I'm not miffed. "Perfect timing!" I say, in a friendly voice. "That was beautiful."

"How you been?" he asks. I wasn't expecting him to continue the conversation, and as I look at him now I realize he's Jermain's friend, the kid who once helped an old Asian grandmother with her bags. As an aside, Jermain, as the odds would have it, stopped by earlier today to tell me how the food at Silver Forks is. "Yeah Jerry told me if I ride the bus every day for two weeks he'd pay me," he said, managing to sound both relaxed and out of breath, "and he did, took me out to Silver Forks, we had some breakfast it was pretty good." Apparently Jerry, a father figure, wanted to imprint the value of being on the bus at a young age. I've been seeing a lot of Jermain lately; he's a black American high-schooler who looks, dresses and talks the way we're cultured to expect, but has seeds of something else in him. I look forward to finding out who he grows into as the years wear on.

Back to his friend, having just made the bus~ 

"I been great!" I say, in response to his query. "Happy to be on the route! You goin' home, goin' to work?"
"Goin' home."
"Nice, it's the right time a day." Late evening now.
"You almost done wit' your shif'?"
"Getting there. I'ma go all the way to U District- all the way back to Rainier Beach- back to Downtown, then call it good."
He knows the route well enough to know that means I'm only about halfway done; I think he was expecting me to say I was nearly finished. In a tone of encouragement he says, "right on. Gotta make that paper!"
"Oh yeah! Good to pay the rent when the rent's due!"He laughs, seeing I'm happy to be here.

There's an enterprising spirit he and Jermain both have which transcends expectations. The adolescent brain doesn't have a fully formed pre-frontal cortex; the ability to consider the needs of others and empathize isn't completely formed until about twenty-five. It's a growth mechanism. Ostensibly, in earlier life you prioritize your needs over others so you can survive. Then your frontal lobe finishes growing and you and everyone else in the village help each other to survive.* I catch myself being mildly surprised- a teenager asking about my day?

Recently Jermain was on a nighttime run of my 14. We were talking when a bewildered man got on, a stranger to both of us. "You sound like from you from Down South," he said to the guy. They built up a conversation together, staccato consonants and lackadaisical drawling vowels- food, street names, weather. Young J hopes to move to Atlanta, and considers the South as his adopted home, much the way I do Seattle. Mainly I was struck to see a young person reaching out to strangers. When was the last time you saw a teenager talking to an adult they didn't already know, without trying to get anything out of it for themselves?

--

*There are plenty of books on neuroscience, some by pop psychologists and others by actual researchers in the field. There are far too many neuroscientists to suggest reading here, and thus I restrict myself to one: Jill Bolte Taylor, who temporarily lost all ability in her left brain due to a stroke. Eventually the cells regrew and the neural pathways reformed, but she describes that period as by far the best in her life. Learn more from her book, My Stroke of Insight.

"You keepin' me smilin' with that deep sexy voice o' yours," says a gravelly ball of waning energy on the 358. She's over forty, mixed race and short, from places I can't figure. 
"Oh gosh," I say, trying not to blush. "It's not that good!" 
I'm terrible at taking compliments. As a child I couldn't stand my rosy cheeks, and for a long time thought there must be some way of peeling them off to take them back to normal, the way everyone else's were. Never ended up getting around to that.

"Yeah it is!" she exclaims. "You should be a radio guy. Should be a DJ."
Time to change the subject.
"How's your day been?"
"Uuhh. Busy."
"I hope in a good way!"
"Uuhhh," she proclaims.
 "Oh no! You got a chance to relax comin' up?"
"Oh yeah, Friday!"
"That always makes it easier. Even if you're busy now, when you know when your next chance to just sit around and stare out the window is. You've got that waiting on the horizon."
"Yeah. I got to get ready for Seahawks!"
"There you go."
"I'm tryin t' decide whether to make gumbo."

She said it as if it was a difficult decision. I burst out laughing as we cross Marion Street.

I'm saying, "well, of course! The answer's yes, you know that!"
She chuckles, adding, "well, my hubby want jambalaya."
"Ooooohhhkay, I see." Recognizing the gravity of the situation. "We do got a dilemma on our hands," I say, pretending to be very serious. "I thought this was between gumbo or no gumbo."
"Oh yeah that'd be easy. This,"
"That would be a big piece of cake. No contest! Case closed!"
"You got that right."
"This' a little more complex right here."
"Oh yeah!"
"A tough life choice indeed! We got some figurin' out to do!"
She laughs with her eyes and voice, a husky, fluttering ray of light and rising sound, her exhausting day forgotten.

I'm riding home from Sea-Tac with a dear friend of mine. The last train headed for downtown has already left for the night, and we thus opt for a late-night 124 to work our way back into town. For decades Metro offered 24-hour service from downtown to Sea-Tac; maybe someday when there's money they'll consider doing so again. But nevermind. My friend and I pass the time pleasantly at Tukwila International Boulevard Station- yes, such a thing is possible at 1:30am! She and I talk around in detailed circles, always with more to say to each other, sharing space with the working few. 

For tonight at least, the hour has since passed for drunks and users. Now is the quiet time, that elusive pre-dawn realm populated by people who very much need the bus. Cruising down the Boulevard now, I look around at the nations seated beside me: hollow cheeks and thoughtful, tired eyes, gazing into the middle distance, statuesque and contemplative, resting on the go.

Mostly men here, but not all, dressed in layered practicality: raincoats, work coats, sweaters, hoodies, windbreakers, reflective jackets... all with a tinge of earthy scrappiness. We're on Pac Highway after all, and this is no place for the careless. The globe, our globe, balances precariously on the services and elemental labor these folks provide, and would swiftly crumble if not for their continued presence.

The 124 driver, also a friend of mine, takes us gently through the night like the seasoned pro that she is. One of my favorite things about being an operator- and something I never anticipated- is the sense of being surrounded by people you know whenever you're going about the city on foot or by bus. Those are all your friends or acquaintances out there, familiar working faces on the move. 

Seated- sprawled is a better word- about the front seat is a thin African-American man of roughly thirty. Oversized dark gray sweater with the collar turned up, black jeans and fuzzy cornrows ending in a bun behind his head. He stares vacantly, head resting on the top of the seat, his body draped in an expansive slouch, conforming to the surfaces around him. 

At some point an older woman boards. She steps in slowly, heavier, hobbling forward on swollen limbs, colorful knee-high socks mostly covering her pale and puckered skin. She's white and sixty-plus, with friendly eyes and her hands full- a bag, a backpack, a cane.

Cornrows notes her presence entering and, without waiting for any suggestion, gets up to offer his seat to her. He's already stepping away when she manages a "thank you."

"Oh, that's no problem at all," he says. He says it fluidly and quietly, a natural kindness, in a cadence I wouldn't have expected based on his dress and stance. Had my eyes been closed I'd have thought he was Cary Grant. Sometimes the 124 is more than worthy of the "Jerry Springer" designation; tonight we've got Jimmy Stewart in here. We've got Sydney Poitier. 

"Tony!!!"
"Hey hey, how's it goin'?"
"The man of the hour! Good to see you, my friend. How's it been today?"

Tony is the vet mentioned here, where I designate him as "Grizzly Tony, beer-guzzling panhandler extraordinaire." That was two years ago. Today he and I are still doing our thing. I still spend large quantities of time smiling up and down the length of Rainier Avenue, and he still pulls down long hours working along Rainier with his cardboard sign. 

I know it might sound incongruous to describe panhandling as work, but it's tougher than one might think. Certainly it's not hard to picture the difficulties of being outside for long hours for minimal return; what's more difficult to imagine is the psychology necessary. You have to diminish your sense of identity until you hit a place where you can present yourself publicly in a state of abject failure. You know you have dignity, but to choose to show yourself to the world in a way such that they'll see you as having none... a number of homeless friends I know don't panhandle for this reason. They don't want to wrap their heads around that frame of mind if they can help it.

As for Tony, I don't think he cares that much. He's an educated man, a vet, and he likes to booze it up. Caucasian is a misnomer; his skin is red now, tanned from daylight exposure and bleached a rosy hue, that swarthy quality that comes with too much alcohol. He has a knack for being able to talk to anyone, and his past, involving work in all sorts of disciplines, gives him a starting point for conversation with most people. I first met him on the 4, when I heard a voice augmenting my announcements.

"We're closin' the back doors," I'd say. 
"Now we're closin' the front door, we're about to close the front door," he'd say in his gravelly voice. I see my announcements as pertaining to matters of importance along the route- the stops, asking them to hang on, et cetera. He saw them as me simply verbalizing everything that  the bus was doing. He found the idea hilarious (which it is!), and added to it in the spirit of comic exaggeration. 

Me: "Here we go!"
Him: "bus is moving forward, everybody!"
"Next stop is 4th and James,"
"We're drivin' through the green light here, folks,"
This was in 2009, when I still somewhat new to driving downtown routes and the folks who use them. I knew getting all uptight would be a mistake, though. The trick here is to flow with, rather than against. "You should be doin' my job!" I holler out. "Sound like a pro!"

"Makin a left turn, makin a left turn here, everybody pay attention left turn," he's saying. It's my turn to augment him.
"Makin that left turn on James, stoppin' by the courthouse."
"Bus is about to open the doors, watch out,"
A block later, I'm saying, "almost at 5th avenue, by the Municipal Court, Muni Tower, Jail..."
"Jail?! Holy cow, I wasn't even gonna say jail!" 

We've been on good terms ever since. What I find most amusing about him is how serious he can keep his face when saying silly things. He has a comedian's ability to keep a straight face. Throughout the above he generally wore his poker face like a champ; but he'll always break down at the end and respond in kind to my "good to see ya."

Back to the present. We're on Rainier and McClellan inbound, and I'm asking him how he's doing. "Soaked to the skin, man," he says. "Soaked to the skin, they got so much rain comin down out here..."
"Where you goin' now, you goin' home?" I think he likes me because I treat him without pity, as just another guy, with only a few small differences in life choice and circumstance separating us. An equal, in other words.

"Goin' a go see my fiance."
"What? Congratulations!" I say, turning around. "That's fantastic!" I think I'm more excited than he is. Friends know I'm easily thrilled. "You got one up on me, man. I hope one day I can tell you I'm goin' a go see my fiance!"
"She's alright," he deadpans.
I can't help but laugh. He continues with, "I gotta go get her some beers."
"Yeah?" 
"Yeah, she drink different type a alcohol than me."
"Uh-oh."
"Yeah, I drink PBR, she drinks buttercups." In that serious tone, as if this is a particularly dour issue.
"Gotta keep the lady happy, that's what they say,"
"Don't want a woman trippin' on ya," he says, in a tone so humorless I find it comical. 
"Gotta get those buttercups."

As he settles in behind me, I hear the chatter continue. He's telling a story, and I hear intermittent smatterings amongst the wet pavement and rolling wiper blades- "ATF," "had my clothes on," "fiance," "shooting down here," "mulberries." Then I hear the echo of unconcealed truth in his tone as he tells someone, "oh, no no. I could never afford a real ring. I c'afford a Cracker Jack ring, that's about it."

I feel like I see so many fragments of universes, the visible tips of deep and storied lives, icebergs whose temperatures and histories we can only guess at. Here are the glancing shades of a few-

Shan ("not Shannon, just Shan"), standing at the front of my 358, telling me how she broke up with her emotionally abusive boyfriend and thus felt a new and heady sensation of release. She's developed a heretofore untapped appetite for exercise and has lost 150 pounds in ten months. I look at her beaming face, long hair and the first beautiful aging lines, letting all that vitality hit me. 

An old but hardy man, perhaps a seafaring type, getting off at Seneca, quipping to me as he leaves: "okay, you can go home now!"

At Beacon and Lander. An African-American man stands up inside the coach, yelling through the open window at his friend across the street: "IT'S TEN O' CLOCK! WHASS UP CHUCKIE!" I glance at my watch. It's 3:42. Maybe he means New Zealand time.

On the 36, a little south of Judkins outbound. Who's that Chinese senior walking with her head down, a half-smile on her face? I know that profile. I've pulled up to the stop, way past her, she's back there somewhere, a hundred feet away, walking away- but I know that face. I saw her yesterday, for the first time in months. I throw on the parking brake and jump out of the packed bus- "gimme a second-" and cup my mouth as I yell, "MELBA!" That's her name. "MELBATOAST!"
She looks up, looks to her right, now she's turning around- that half-smile transformed, exploding as she recognizes me. "Nathan!" she shouts. We wave. I wish her a good day and jump back inside. 
"Don't mind me," I tell the passengers. "Just sayin' hey to my buddy!"

A working girl (you know what I mean) in a leering tank top, straps and bra straps, cleavage for miles, midriff exposed. No makeup today. Her sweatshirt is tied round her waist, somehow matching her hair tied back in a high ponytail. "Thank you," she says as she gets off. She's carrying, among other things, a hub cap for a Honda Civic.

Halfway down the bus sit two older Vietnamese, easily seventy, one a man and the other a lady. They sit across the aisle from each other, in their own separate seat pairs. Not relaxed around each other enough to be a couple; maybe they're neighbors. They're passing a cantaloupe back and forth. One really wants to give it to the other, and the other is just way too polite about it. Gestures of "no thank you, really" and "here you go," until finally they grin back and forth, crinkling into ageless humor.

An East Asian woman at Dearborn, standing by me on the 7. "Next stop is Dearborn, by Goodwill," I announce over the intercom.
"Is the next one Dearborn? By Goodwill?" she asks in accented syllables.
"It is indeed!"
"Okay. Good." 

The redundant question is hardly bothersome, and I can see she feels comfortable. Good. I look at her and she looks at me, and there's a shared desire, as if we'd both love to keep talking, keep connecting, but we don't know what to discuss. That's what the weather's for, isn't it?

I'm about to mention the rain when she says, "what is this rain?" 
"Yes, I don't understand! I thought it was going to be sunny!"
"Me too, the clouds were light, the sky was blue,"

I want to say, "looks can be deceiving," but I can't be sure of her proficiency in English. Will she know what 'deceiving' means? In that moment I decide to go for it. It feels good to be given the benefit of the doubt (a la the woman who trusted me to know the word conviviality). You're acknowledging the possibility.

"Looks can be deceiving!"
She laughs, a rich, comprehending, mellifluous chuckle. "Oooh! So philosophical!"