On the incredible 3/4-
A young man on the other side of Jefferson makes a noise. It's Jermain (from here and here, among other stories). He yells a quiet hey from across the street, and I'm happy to see him. Great. I get excited when young people show a buried promise, and you can wonder at what considerable accomplishments they have in them to achieve in the future.

Several hours later, as I pull into Third and Virginia southbound, mulling over how the zone feels like a landing strip because of how huge the sidewalk is, I start lightly tapping the horn- it's Genevieve!!! In the living breathing flesh! She's a nurse at several Swedish's, and used to be something of a regular; I haven't seen her in over a year. Here she is again, out of the blue. The multiple exclamation points really are necessary; her ebullient energy is infectious. I ask her about her twelve-hour night shifts, her multiple degrees, other interests, children, and her passion for burlesque... and how it is that she still has room to be happy. We get to talking, and both of us are very excited. We both suffer from the same problem of looking ten years younger than we really are, and are able to commiserate on such matters. At James and Third I see Jermain again at the zone, and I'm excited to say hey once more; but I focus on the individuals getting on in front of him, making eye contact with every person in the crowd, knowing I'll get to talk to him in a minute. Each person needs that moment of contact, however brief. The difference between a short second of eye contact and a slightly longer moment is not so great; the difference between eye contact and no eye contact is vast.

The last guy steps on. It's a young black American teen with basketball shoes and a T-shirt that's too big, so far so good... but wait! Who's this kid? That's not Jermain! Just a lookalike!

Where on earth is the guy? Is he still at the zone? Maybe, as there's still a few fellows loitering around. I want to get out of the seat, lean out the door and yell, "Jermain! As-salamu alaykum!" 

I don't do this. Instead I mutter darkly, "why isn't Jermain on this bus?" as Genevieve and I resume our conversation. Later, I'm puzzled. Why didn't I lean out the door and say hey? Why? What makes us hold back from ourselves, from the actions we know we could perform and share? Why do we avoid interactions which we have every confidence will go over well? It's not like I would have made a fool of myself- okay, maybe I would have, but who cares? Not in this instance. What strange virus is this, that forces timidity where there is no reason for it? I feel lame afterwards. I resolve to be more open with myself. 

I pull into Third and Pike, notice the wonderful tiny old Filipino woman, Rose, and pull way beyond her to the head of the zone to load passengers. 

As soon as they're all onboard I, in a moment of utter overcompensation, completely step off the coach, and yell down the zone, through all the people: "ROSE! ROSE! HAVE A GOOD DAY!" She's confused, then thrilled, as she pieces this bizarre situation together. She returns the wave as energetically as her aging arm is able.

Continuing in this vein, I embark on a waving bonanza. At 21st & Jefferson, I arbitrarily wave for no reason at all a man waiting across the street. I guess I'm banking on the fact that he knows me, or that he's into waving at strangers. He returns the wave.

I'm announcing an upcoming zone, and my hands are full with holding the mic and the wheel, but I see a man with a walker on Third looking up at me from the sidewalk. We're nowhere near a zone, and he doesn't want to get on; he just seems likes he wants to wave. His hands are full too, maneuvering his walker. In the midst of announcing, I give him the upward-head nod and smile, and he returns it with a nod to the skies and down again, a face of joyous mock surprise.

The energy is flowing. "JAGPAL," I yell, upon seeing Jagpal across the street, driving the 358. 

Sometimes this openness falls completely flat. I'm inbound at Seneca now. A young businessman in his thirties, dressed in a navy oxford and black slacks, steps forward, preparing to get off. He has earphones in.

I glance at him in the mirror and say, "How's it goin'?" 
"Whhuuu?" he intones, taking out an earpiece temporarily. He gives me the face I probably make when I'm in foreign countries and people are yelling at me.
"Just sayin' hey, nothin' major," I answer.
After a pause: "Ooooohhh."
"What are we listening to?"
Dead silence.
A lady nearby and I burst out laughing together- she says, "he can't hear a damn thing!"
"Must be some pretty good tunes!"

The man's earphones are back in, and he doesn't hear a word of our cacophony. He's the 21st century zombie: slick, fast, well-groomed, and completely and voluntarily deaf. He goes racing down the street, a man on a mission.

Another wave at a middle-aged Latino man walking on a street somewhere in the Judkins neighborhood. His stance seems to say, "it's that crazy bus driving kid who waves at people." It works again as I pass by the dealers and users at Parnell's, the mini-mart at Dearborn. They're notoriously unresponsive when it comes to interaction, but today one of those faces transforms into a beaming grin, bloodshot eyes relaxing around the corners. Another fellow in a wheelchair offers a lazy salute.

Continuing through the Judkins area, a petite young lady kneels down by her dog as I pass by, returning my friendly demeanor with a bright smile.

While I'm in the mood, not quite knowing what's come over me, I wave yet again- an extended fist way too much like a black power salute- at a man and his friend hanging out in the parking lot adjacent to the Center Park project housing at MLK and Walker. I definitely don't know these guys. It's completely random. There's no reason for it. It doesn't make any sense. They return the wave, getting excited, new smiles where there were none before.

I think her name was Katherine, on her way to a haircut. She was up front, just boarded, watching bright-eyed as I greeted the masses on the 10. We were talking about positive energy. I was telling her what I often say, about how when you put a lot of yourself out there, you get a lot back (this is one of my reasons for picking the routes I do; why is the heavy work so much more conducive?).

"Yeah," she said, listening. "It gets magnified by the universe and then it comes back to you."
"Yeah, and– wow," I said abruptly, more carefully registering her thought. "That's a great way of putting it, magnified by the universe. I'd never thought of it in those words." 

I repeated it, to make sure I'd gotten it right. The notion that the energy we put out there didn't just simply come back, but that it underwent a process by simple virtue of existing in our world. Of course, I thought. Our efforts and perception return to us colored and seasoned by the pulsing universe, coming back around as something fresh, de novo, unexpected... and yet also, yes, vaguely familiar, that distant echo of ourselves we'd feel lost without. We are the world we see.

She shrugged a natural smile, youthful and easy, tossing her braid back like it wasn't any big thing.

"How you doin'?" I ask her at Campus Parkway inbound. It's nearing midday, sunny, on a half-full 70.
"Swell," she says happily, sounding surprised to see me. I won't see her smile again.
"Thats excellent!"

She's telling me the details of her morning, which don't sound swell at all. Sitting at the front now, putting that chat seat to use, she might be in her late teens, African-American, with short hair and flair to spare in her denim outfit. 

She carries the weight of someone who knew how to be happy in an earler time, but whose circumstances have pulled her in another direction. A sonorous melancholy pervades her monologue, in my mind entirely inappropriate for the young girl she is. She's experiencing dizziness, she tells me, perhaps from low blood circulation, headaches, and sciatica-
"A lot of bus drivers get that. My sciatic nerve hurts someimes."
"Yeah, I bet it's from all the sitting."
"Exactly."
"I don't know if I have kids, man. I dont know if they're dead or not dead, sometimes I just feel them out there, and I don't know. And it's so hard to find out 'cause I don't know how old I am, or for sure who my parents are. See I used to think I was adopted, but...." 

I forget the rest. It sprang unbidden from her, shaking in her voice. I remember only the glassy look in her eyes, a face I see in the mirror when I'm very ill, those hollow liquid irises yearning for respite. I remember the downbeat inflection, a timbre that wouldn't exist if loving friends and parents dwelled in the sidelines of her existence. Who on earth am I, to be complaining about my sciatic nerve?

"My mom lives in Federal Way," she's saying.
I wonder after her family situation, and consider the decorum in asking. After a pause I say, "can you go see her, or is that not an-"
"Well, she in Federal Way but I don't know where."
"Okay." I continue, hoping that she finds her kids, encouraging her toward the echoing suggestion telling her they're alive, the validity of that instinct, the fact that intuition springs from somewhere real. A mother knows. For myself, intuition, conscience, instinct- whatever name we give to that small voice inside us- knows more than our reasoning minds can ever comprehend in a given moment. At the very least it represents the sum total of knowledge gained in all our life experiences, and shouldn't be ignored. Your gut has a simple wisdom that would take years to parse out.

"I have faith in what I believe," she says, listening.
"It's hard not to."
Thoughtfully: "yeah."
"Are you goin' downtown right now?"
"Yeah, I'm goin' the Orion Center."
"Oh, that's a good spot."
"Yeah, they're great there."
"They almost had to shut down."
"What?"
"Yeah, money problems, they almost had to go." 
"Oh, that's fuckin' bullshit and terrible."
"But they ended up getting stuff, somehow they got money and they're still there."* Always something to be thankful for.
"I'm tryin' ta get some food. There's supposed to be a lunch there, free lunch starting at twelve." 
"When does it go 'til?"
"I think one." It's 12:48. I'm at Fairview and Denny. "Okay, we might make the end of it."
"Wait no, I think it ends at 12:30, 12 to 12:30, yeah."
"Shoot, well it's 12:48 right now."
"Oh, that's shitty," she breathes. No lunch today. She sighs a sigh whose burden carries the heartache of the ages.

"Do you like peanut butter and jelly?" I ask.
"Yeah, thats what's up."
"I have two peaut butter and jelly sandwiches on me, thats all the food on me. You can have 'em if you like."
She thinks a brief moment and says, "I'll take a peanut butter and jelly!"
"Okay, lemme pull over at this stop, I'll grab 'em for ya."

At Boren I reach behind my seat and hand her both sandwiches.
"Oh, you should keep one," she says, concerned.
"What? No, it's okay. You should have both of 'em. I can always... I'll deal."
"No no, you should have one too." She hands it back.
I can see she isn't going to take both sandwiches, and reluctantly concede.
"Thanks!" she says. Her eyes have a spark in them now, embers coming back to life.
"Thank you! You be safe today!"
"You too, have a good day!"

I couldn't believe it. She still had room in her headspace to think not just about her own troubles, significant as they were, but also to consider my needs as well. A friend who canvassed door-to-door for parenthood resources once told me that the people who donated the most were poor and working class immigrant families- those least equipped to do so, in other words. I felt utterly ridiculous, taking back the second sandwich, knowing how much more she needed it than I; but I could see how much she cared, how deeply she knew of the value of food and kindness. She had to behave as she did. The things you learn at ground level.

---

*YouthCare's Orion Center was planning to close its doors last February due to expiring grants and federal funding, but continues to remain a valuable resource due to a pool of funds coming from a holiday concert charity challenge, pledges from local foundations, and a very successful luncheon. Read about the Center here. Read here for a success story on Calvin, who today seems "a typical, if overachieving, college-bound freshman;" 'twas not always so.

You know how the 44 generally is around midday. Scattered students, errand runners, the occasional Ballard drunk and myself drifting back and forth on Market Street. Today's Monday, and things have been mellow even for the start of the week, which is traditionally the quiet time for both traffic and customers. I'm passing the time pleasantly enough, but I feel a gauzy haze in between myself and my surroundings. Am I really here? The students tend not to go in for the whole community-building interaction thing. Maybe they just need an example. I continue my hellos and thank-yous as we wind down 45th, pushing further into afternoon.

All is quiet. That is, until a man appears at the Health Sciences Building stop on campus. He's no student, though he does have a backpack, which he hurls bodily onto the bus prior to his making an entrance; the heavy black pack lands at my feet with a thud and he laboriously begins his trek up the four stairs. The Breda is only existing model in our fleet with four stairs, which sometimes throws blind passengers for a loop- all other coaches in the fleet have either three steps, or none. 

My response to the backpack chucking is to ask him how he's doing.

"Hel-lo! How're you?"
"It's Friday!" he barks, his voice inflected with the gravel and sandy grit of past decades. He is tall and lanky, perhaps sixty, the white-blond hair on his arms standing out against skin tanned and burnt like red leather. Jean jacket, worn, blue jeans and boots (but no horse or motorcycle!).
"It is indeed!" I reply. "We made it!"

He works his way down the aisle and stakes out a window seat, settling in for what will likely be a long, slow ride. He knows what
he's in for. We're just getting into the part of the afternoon where traffic begins to multiply. West of Wallingford, the 44 is a breeze,
with enough dedicated lanes and queue jumps to make it feel like a Sound Transit route. Getting to that stretch, however, is the challenge. The short section from 15th and 43rd to the other side of I-5 (three-fourths of a mile) can take up to thirty minutes. Forty-fifth Street spills over with cars interested in I-5, Roosevelt, and more, and the light cycles just don't allow for the high volumes. There's nothing to do but throw your hands up and enjoy it all. Regulars know how it is.

I'm surprised then, wondering how today, at the height of rush hour, we manage to get through in no time at all; in just twelve minutes or so we're in Wallingford, pulling into Meridian and Burke.

In the crowded silence I hear him bellow out, "holy crap, we made it to Wallingford in three minutes!"
"I know, I can't believe it!" I holler back. By three, of course, he means twelve; but it's not about specifics. He sums up the 44's traffic patterns and their effects in less technical terms. Clamoring with joyous abandon in a spirit the students nearby no doubt share, he roars: "we should all be CONSTIPATED back here!"

"It's amazing!" I respond. "I must be doin' something wrong!"
"On a Friday, too. How do you do it?"
"It's like magic, only happens once in a lifetime!"
"S'posed to be constipated," I hear him muttering. Hesitant smiles light up in my mirror, faces stretching the underused muscle of convivial strangerhood. Shifts in behavior, ways of seeing, arriving at the light comfort of being yourself- these begin as kernels of thoughts, haltingly planted in the loose soil of a passing moment. Change happens slowly in the mainstream, but it does happen.

On the 7:

He looks gruff, plugged in to his headphones, light mustache and beard cut to angle downwards, as if to set his features in a permanent grimace. I've spoken with him before, however, and he's just another fellow, put-together and forward moving, scrambling to make a life for himself, as we all do. Around forty, black American, his clothes clean and sharp, cutting a figure of disciplined energy. He wasn't always in such good stead. Not long ago he was studying hard for college entrance exams, a radical change in life for him; in his gruff way he'd keep me updated, and it was a pleasure to see his smile on the day after he passed them.

Today he steps forward before getting out, earphones pulled out for real-life engagement. He's wearing a jacket of new and treated leather with fitted dark jeans and boots, an ordinary outfit, sure, but with an attention to presentation. The details are crisp, and everything is in its right place. 

This evening it's rainy, and the slick roll of pavement obscures his words at the outset of our conversation. 
"I lost forty-five [unintelligible]. It was thirty-three, thirty-eight, forty-three."
Forty-five what, I wonder. Pounds? Minutes? Is he angry about this loss, or happy about it? I can't tell. The gruff goatee doesn't really help. I take a chance and say, "that sounds great!"
"Yeah, forty-five pounds in [unintelligible] months!"
Whew! 
"All my pants. I used to have these designer pants," he continues. "A whole rack of them, you know, fancy. All them good designer jeans I had, but I couldn't wear them no mo,' 'cause they were all too big! Had to get rid of them. All a sudden they were huge. I looked like a crack dealer!"
Both of us laughing out.
"You know how crack dealers where those big,"
"Yeah, yeah!"
"Yeah, tha's why I had to get these glasses, so people stop lookin' at me funny!"
"Oh, that's great!"

There I was, thinking he wore glasses to improve his vision. Clearly I was out of the loop! It's all about that non-crack dealer image, apparently. I found the idea at once comical, sad, and endearing. Comical, because of its absurdity; sad, because for Pete's sake, the memo should be out that not all black men are crack dealers; and endearing, because he found a creative solution to a potentially troubling ideological issue, laughing it all off with aplomb and feeling comfortable enough to share it with me. Something to consider the next time you see someone wearing spectacles- or stuck walking around in unnaturally large expensive pants!

I realize in rereading this piece that it can be seen to function as a political endorsement. It was not intended as such, though I suppose I don't have a problem with it being read in that light; more importantly, rather, it is offered as a truthful record of moments and conversation between a couple of fellows, late one recent evening.

---

I'm beginning my last trip on the 14. It's a short run from Mt. Baker to 5th and Jackson. At the transit center on Rainier they come rushing over. I'd been holding for time in the silent nothingness of a Monday at midnight, but then they materialize, out of the last seconds, dashing across the street. I am useful now.

Like figures in a von Stuck painting they take shape as they come closer. All three are African-American men between forty and sixty, strangers to each other, shaded in muted hues of brown and blue. Here's a man shuffling, his walker leading him out of the darkness. Another fellow, heavyset but agile, quietly smiling with his arms full. He's carrying a huge box of dog food under one arm. Later I'll offer him a night stop to save a few blocks on his walk home. The thin man is third, and the youngest, sharply attired in a fitted leather jacket and beret. In each hand is a bulging QFC paper bag. 

"I'm tryin' to catch the last bus to South Park," he breathes. "I think I can get it in the International District." My sign says "14 to International District."
"South Park, okay. What's that, the 131, 132?"
"132," he replies.
I ask, "do you know when it leaves?" I not sure which of those two routes closes out the route pairing for the night. I know each is only hourly after 8 or so.
"I think one something."
"Oh, good, good. I get up there at 12:14, 5th and Jackson."

He's stressing, digging in his pockets for his transfer, trying to hold onto his QFC bags all the while. 
"We're still early, no rush." 

In my mind flashes a moment from earlier in the night: an elderly Chinese woman scurrying up to the bus at Maynard Avenue. "One more, one more," she cried out. As she boarded there was every indication she did not have fare- her scruffy attire, the swarthy skin and odor of an alcoholic, the youthfully insolent manner in which she said she'd look for her transfer- all quite contradicting the studied presence and decorum of most of her east Asian contemporaries. I welcomed her on in, expecting nothing in terms of payment, only to be surprised later when she presented me with a crumpled scrap of H with an Orange border. "Oh, you're wonderful! Thank you," I said, silently chiding myself for making assumptions in the first place. Even if she didn't have it- we all have our reasons.

In this spirit, I say to the Beret, "come on in, we can do that later. You got your hands full."
"Really?"
"I trust you."
"Thanks!"

As he settles in, Walker sings out, "hey when's last 14 come out this way?"

I'm a believer in the idea that drivers should know the system. We are not boneheads, but professionals who can be expected to multitask and care about the service they provide. In the same way you expect a grocer to know where every last item is located, or a taxi driver to know every address in the city, I feel it is not unreasonable to expect a transit operator to know frequencies, major routes, last route departures, and so on. As drivers we're not strictly required to know these things, but why not take pride in one's work? Take pride in the responsibility that is expected of you as a professional. You can rise to that level. In the words of a straight-talking supervisor who recently spoke to a class of us drivers: "if you don't know what bus goes to Harborview, you need to go get a job working somewhere else. If you don't know what bus goes to U-District, Downtown, West Seattle... you have no business being here." Harsh words, but sometimes you need to stretch a point in order to make one.

Having said all that, I only have a vague notion of when the last 14 is! Most of my bus knowledge comes from years of riding buses- definitely the easiest way to learn the system- but I've never ridden the last 14.* 

"Um, they tend to stop around one. Lemme check it out to make sure," I say, deftly grabbing a schedule from behind the timetable rack behind my seat. I hold it in my fingers as I drive, not bothering to try to read it- impossible without a red light.
"You lookin' at the schedule?"
"Yeah, tryin' to."
Beret interjects, saying "here, lemme look at it for ya."
"Hey man," I say, "thank you for helpin out!" 
"Oh yeah, well, somebody did me a favor, I may as well do someone else a favor!"
"Gotta pay it forward!"

They work out the timetables and continue chatting. I listen in as we cruise up 31st Avenue, approaching the Central District.

"What's at you got there?"
"Spinach, bro," answers Beret. "One seventy nine."
"Where you shop at?"
"I used to stay out here."
"Used to," says Walker Man. I can't read his meaning. Referring to the spinach Beret is now enthusiastically chomping down, he continues: "that's just raw?"
"Oh yeah, man. You eat this with anything."
I yell out, "makes you big and strong!"
"As' right!"
"Just like Popeye!"

Somehow they get from spinach to the housing market. Beret is feeling good this evening. He looks at the rain on the glass beside his face and says, "some cities, everything just shuts down at night. But here, they got at least one bus, sometimes two buses, they'll take you where you need to go. Maybe you gotta walk some, but they're there."

I'm tempted to join in, but the mellow night soothes me. I'm enjoying the role of quiet participant, observing the twists and turns of their nocturnal meanderings. They continue discussing bus service, in generally praiseworthy terms, when the 7 pulls alongside us at 12th and Jackson. It's the great Sonum driving, one of the masters of the late-night 7, and he opens his window. Sonum and I used to ride the bus home together, and I've always enjoyed his humble, well-travelled humor and tireless work ethic. He believes in a just universe.

"Hey, Sonum!"
"Hey, Nathan! Wait for me at the stop, I got a guy wants to transfer!"
"Oh, I'm only goin to 5th and Jackson. Just 5th and Jackson," I say to the concerned passenger face beside him.
"Oh, okay. Never mind."

Afterwards, Beret says, "major props, man. Respect. I give you major props for that, sir."
"Gotta look out for each other, right?" I reply.
"Oh yeah. Where I come from the frequency is good but oh man, so many times the bus is right there and it'a just drive away."
"Oh no!"
"It's a good system here."
"I think so too."
"Just hope they get that funding for you guys April 22nd."
"Yeah, well. I hope folks come out and vote!"
"Yeah, gotta keep up the service. in fact, it should be add more service, not just keep it where it is. Add more buses."
"Oh yeah. Well, it's funny you should say. The guy who runs Metro is a cool guy, comparatively younger guy, from New York,"
"Oh! I'm from upstate New York,"
"Awesome. Yeah, real solid guy, wants not just to preserve the network, but ideally someday he'd like to just about double the amount of service on the streets. There's even a plan for how to do it. 'Cause you gotta match the growth that's happening in this place.  'Course we don't got the money for it now, but one day, you know, when the money's right."
"I see it. 'Cause it's a city on the upswing."
"On the upswing, exactly. Other cities, LA, which is my hometown,"
"Oh right on,"
"When I'm down there half a everyone I'm talking to is people telling me they're leaving. Here, people are coming to Seattle. You always run into somebody just moved here. It's a city that's goin' places."
"I just moved here."
"Exactly. Welcome to Seattle!"

"Okay, here's 5th and Jackson," I say as we make the turn.
"Right on."
"Do you know where to get the 132 at?"
"Yeah, I think...." 
I point out where 3rd and Main is, and how to walk over there. Walker Man leaves kindly, without incident.

"Alright, I say, as the bus points toward base. Time for me to go home!"
"Major props, once again, for your attitude," says Beret, from the lamplit brick sidewalk.
"Right back atcha!"
"I didn't know it was gonna be the bus of people helpin' people!"

He felt the warm glow of community, the democratic, equalizing notion of individuals considering each other as parts of a greater whole. Belonging. Here was that all-encompassing sensation that floods your system, the feeling of being comforted and empowered all at once. He walked into the night energized, beginning the final leg of the long trip home.


*The last outbound 14 leaves 3rd and Union at 1:15, every night!