Did you miss the print version of my Real Change profile mentioned a while back? Here it is, courtesy of Tricia Sullivan and Real Change!

"We're actually gonna use that bus in front up there. This one has vomit all over it."
"Sounds like you've been having a great day!" someone says in amiable jest.
"Oh, awesome!"

I explain to the passengers that we'll be trading buses out at the next zone. It's a lazy Autumn afternoon on the 4. The madness has passed, and we're languishing in the mellow onset of evening. The sun's still out, casting long shadows, the rays no longer high enough to reach over the tall buildings. We pass through downtown in the emerging shade.

The incident happened an hour or so ago, and as I've been driving around subsequently the odor has evolved, taking us to strange and interesting new places. Now it smells uncannily like a demented cocktail of rancid peanut butter, rancid tomatoes, and rancid Elmer's glue (if there is such a thing). Didn't think I'd smell that when I woke up this morning! I take it all in stride, both for myself and as an example for the people; let's keep them calm. Earlier a supervisor came by to rope off the back lounge area of the bus with yellow caution tape. It's an ominous look, but I balance it out with a comfortable, breezy approach.  

In time the looming mystery pile at the back of the bus ceases to intimidate and instead becomes an excuse for the moment to shed its normalcy. The load is light, with most of us sitting toward the front, spread out and relaxed. We talk to each other, breaking the ice, thanks to the benevolent ooze. A youngster accustomed to sitting in the back by habit improvises, listening in on our new space. There is a uniqueness to the moment that isn't threatening. We aren't being united by a common misfortune, but rather by the absurdist touches of the great human comedy.

"Okay guys," I announce into the PA. "We're gonna go ahead and switch buses at this next stop, right here at Union. There's our new bus up there, we're all gonna go get on coach 4126, there it is, finish up the route 4 on the bus in front of me. Once again everyone, we're switching buses today because this bus is UN...sanitary. I repeat, we're changing buses here because this bus is... soiled," I finish, laughing. 
A older woman just recently boarded asks, "what happened?"
"Oh, there's a bunch a vomit in the back there." 
"Uh-oh! So that's what that is! I was wondering,"
"Well, there was this fine young lady who vomited, into her purse, and she left her purse and it got everywhere."
"She did what she had to do," a tanned middle-aged commuter says, chuckling.
We riff off of each other. The woman chimes in with, "hey, I guess she didn't need her purse anymore!"
"Exactly, it fulfilled its purpose!" 
"I mean, you don't take your vomit bag with you," the man affirms.
"Words of wisdom."
"One of those one-time-use purses."
"One of those, yeah. Wish I had one."
"So yeah. We're gonna trade this one out."
"You just thought it might be a good idea?" ribs the man, smiling at me in a glimmer of the last of the day's sunlight.
"Just a thought!" I say. "As fascinating as this bus would be as a biology experiment... we'll let someone else explore that!"

They both exit the bus in high spirits. He volunteers to help the woman carry her heavy jug of kitty litter down the stairs and over the next bus. I can only hope that their good spirits, at least in part, are built off of my choice of tone for the situation. I gather my things and pause for a moment, watching them. They walk toward the new coach together, enthusiastic but tentative, in the way strangers often are before they become friends.

Is the current show in Georgetown too far away? Or have you already seen it? Stop by at Toast Ballard, the delightful new cafe at 5615 24th Ave NW. I have fifteen framed images there for sale (at coffeeshop prices, no less!). As always, these are handmade darkroom prints, made entirely with analog processes from start to finish. 

There's no overlap of work between the two shows, so please feel free to stop by both! Images are on display now through the end of the January.

They have a familiar ease with each other, these two, getting on now at the Courthouse. I've seen this couple before. He's upper fifties, still with a few teeth left, tanned skin Native, with a fishing hat and bundles in both hands. She's upper forties, blue-eyed with a ready smile, clad in a formless black sweatshirt and pants. In one hand is a backpack/suitcase of sorts; in the other she carries a swelling industrial-sized black garbage bag.

"We're lookin' for 125th," he says as they take a seat by the front of my 358.
"I'm goin' there myself." Often I'm struck by how completely at ease I feel being myself around such souls.
"All right."
"Well, that works out."
After a pause, while they talk amongst each other, I hear the man say, "hey. This bus driver's my friend. He's gonna kick you out if you don't watch it. Hey, bus driver? Can you kick her out?"

There is no malice or real feeling in his voice. It's obvious he's joking.
"Naw, we don't wanna do a thing like that!"
"But I thought you were my friend!"
"I'm too nice, is what my problem is. I'm just too nice!"
"Oh, you can kick her out! Look, driver, she's harassing me!"
She laughs. No harassment is taking place; he looks at her with affection before repeating his plea.
I respond with, "but it's the holidays, I can't kick anyone out during the holidays!"
"Oh, sure you can!"
"But would it be part of the giving spirit?"

Later on, as we pass through the Linden deviation, I hear him ask her, "where are we? Are we-?"
"This is 72nd," I say.
She says to him, "we're not even at 7-11 yet, sweetheart."
"I love you more than anything," he responds, looking at her. He says it again, and the woman smiles bashfully in response, looking at him with warm eyes. In his tone I hear truth, time, memory... they spread a light around them, a confidence of self both vivacious and gentle, in no way hindered by their sordid, ramshackle appearance. I'm reminded of Patience Escalier by Van Gogh, or Millet's Fiadeira.

I can hear her talking about me: "...drive all night."
"Oh no, not him," says the man. "He's got a date. He's goin' on a date later tonight."
Now, on this evening that happened to be true, but I hadn't said word one about it. I was flabbergasted. "How did you know that?"
"Oh, I know!" He says. Naturally everyone's listening now.
"That is amazing! I don't know how you did that. You know all about me!"
"Hey, I know these things. It's all out there, on the computers,"
"Figured out all my secret history?"
"Oh, yeah. Well, kids your age these days, everything on Facebook-"

"No way, maaaann!" The sentence is a gesture of supplication on my part, an attempt to let him know that in fact not all of us youngsters are so glued to the bright screens.
"Yeah, dude!"
"No way. In fact, my date doesn't even have a Facebook account."
"She doesn't?!" It's his turn to be flabbergasted.
"Yeah, she doesn't go there. There's still some of us,"
"Well, you better watch out then, don't know what she's hiding on that secret Facebook account."
"Oh, dear! Is that how it is."

"Hey listen, can we open a window and throw my friend out?"
"What?"
"Can we throw her out the window?" Of course he's joking, in his gravelly slur.
"Well you know, generally that type of thing is frowned upon."
"No, it's not. Lemme tell ya one time. I threw her backpack in the river, and the cops came over and asked me why. I said it was between the backpack or her, and I threw the backpack. Cops asked why, and I said go talk to her about it. When they came back they said, 'why didn't you throw her in?'"
"Nooo! They didn't say that!"
"That's what they said! They said that, said, 'why didn't you throw her in instead?'"
"Oh no!"

His ladyfriend is rolling her eyes under all this, saying, "are we there yet?"
"Hey, even the cops said it," he repeats to me.
"Well, the thing is, throwing people in rivers is usually bad manners." I love conversations like this.
"Well, I still threw the backpack."
"We'll ignore that. That's the lesser of two evils."
"How much time till, where are we?"
"This one's 90th, so we have,"
The woman finishes my sentence, saying, "we have just about thirty blocks, thirty-five blocks, yeah."
"But he's going to start doing increments of five." Referring to the stop pattern.
"You know everything about this route!" I say to him. "I should let you drive! I'll just come back and sit with you guys, take a break."

This is a sentence I say often in jest, and most every time passengers understand it as such. But our friend tonight is different. He's actually taking me seriously. In a tone of complete incredulity and excitement he hollers, "REALLY?"
"Well, I love my job too much, or else I'd totally let you."
"Oh, we'd be ALL over the road. I GUARANTEE we'd be all over the road. Oh, YEAH."
As long as I get to some backseat driving, I think to myself. "Let's do that next time."

Eventually we arrive at 125th, and I ask if they're sure they really want to leave. "I mean, we got some good stuff comin' up ahead, some real fun stuff lined up for ya..."
In a whisper he says, "oh, I'm 'bout to have some real fun!" Somehow I get the sense that he's talking about those strip motels on the left, and not Mekong Village or Leows Home Improvement.
"Oh, dear! Well, don't let me interfere!"
"It was good chattin' with ya!"
"Merry Christmas," I say to him. I make eye contact with the lady and wish her a good holiday as well. I want her to know that she is appreciated, and that there will be no forcible kicking of bodies out of windows or doors tonight. She returns my beaming smile with one of her own, no less joyous, lighting up the night.

Happy New Year, my wonderful readers. Thanks for your unwavering enthusiasm and support. Look for me on the road! Say hi!

I'm on another one of my natural highs, filled with energy the passengers and I have made together. "Hi!" I say to those incoming, riding the wave of these different smiling faces, registering their excitement at seeing me. "Hi" is something of a taboo word in customer service, because of its overfamiliarity and supposed lack of professionalism; because of this it possesses a directness of impact its counterparts lack. The enthusiastic responses of the passengers are an indication to me that my presentness is felt.

"We're gonna roll out," I announce. I'm too excited to say "please hang on."
A husky female voice behind me echoes the sentiment, calling out: "Rollin'!"
"Oh yeah. We got places to be!"
"You got that right."
"Mus' be pay day!" says another woman nearby, watching me greet the customers with almost unreasonable glee.
"No, I just can't help myself!"
"That's good." I sense a little serious reflection underneath her jokesy exterior.
Her friend, the one with places to go, suddenly has an idea: "let's get downtown in fifteen minutes!"

There are a couple of ways to react to passengers who try to unreasonably rush you. One is to get worked up about it. Another is to drive faster. I opt for neither, choosing instead to respond as tall grass responds to a breeze. Why flow against the passengers, when you can flow with them?
"I can't make no promises, but I can do what I can!" It's a non-statement if there ever was one, but the acknowledgement in it calms her temporarily.
"Tha's coo', as long as you're tryin.'"

We're inbound, and make the right turn on Winona to do the Linden Avenue deviation. It's the only portion of the 358 that's not on Aurora, and is about to be deleted to further expedite the route. Into the mic: "here we are, goin' through the Green Lake neighborhood. This next one is 73rd, at Linden...okay, how about 68th Street..." At this time of day people rarely get on at these stops. "Comin' up around the bend is 64th, by Green Lake..."
Lady With Places to Go: "Where the freeway??"
"You don't wanna keep hangin' out in Green Lake?"
"Naw, get us outta here!"
Together she and I utter phrases of mock terror: "Please! Please!" 
"Help!"
She's a heavyset middle-aged woman with fancy hair, long fake nails, and personality to burn. Far from being annoyed, I'm actually starting to enjoy this.

Back on the main drag. "Here's 46th, where you can get on a 44 to Ballard, or the U District. Transfer to a 44 downstairs. Have a good day," I tell people over the speakers.
She has further suggestions for me: "keep it movin'!" We gots to fly 'cross dis bridge!"
"Aw, you know I got my foot on the floor!" Somehow this gets a laugh from everyone. Maybe it's because we're doing an ungodly three miles an hour, pulling away from the zone.
"Don't make no stops t' downtown!"
"I'ma just let you take over!"
She laughs.
"Yeah, lemme go 'cross the street, grab a bite," I continue. "You can hit me on the way back!"

"Next one is Lynn. Lynn has an underpass that'll take you to Dexter.... Here's Crocket, by the Aloha Inn."
She pipes up: "they took this stop out!"
"Oh, it's still there," I laugh in response. 
"No way!"
"You guys are a bad influence!" I say with a huge grin. I don't know if she was joking, but I'm going to pretend she was. "S'pposed to be raisin' me right!"

I announce Wall. "After this we'll go to Bell Street."
She corrects me with, "after this take us to Pioneer Square!" 
"Since you say so, I'm a do it. I wasn't gonna go to Pioneer Square, but since you suggest it so nicely..."

She laughs. She's humoring my mood, but she really is in a hurry. At Bell she comes up and speaks in quiet, confidential tones. Her boisterous facade falls away.
"Listen. I really have to use the bathroom. I wondering if I could ask if you'd be willing to let me out at Third and James, across from the courthouse." 

That's not one of the 358's stops. Stopping at the wrong zones in the CBD during the PM rush would interfere with far too much service. Third is overloaded with transit, and the balance is delicate.
"I understand you're in a hurry," I say, looking in her eyes with a correspondingly quiet voice, "but I've actually gotten in trouble for doin' just that. So I got to play it cool."
"Oh."
"I appreciate you understanding." I can see she's telling the truth. I add, "maybe if we hit a red light, we could work something out, but if it's a green, I got to keep rollin.'"
"Okay. Okay. Thank you."

I'm grateful that behind her bluster, she's willing to respectfully accede to my needs. As we near Cherry Street, my last stop on Third, we begin discussing strategy.
"Aw, I don't think it's gonna be a red," she says.
"Go slow through this one!" her friend yells.
"Wait, you want me to go slow?" What a change of tune! Then I understand. She's playing chess, watching the light cycles, one step ahead of the game.
"We got this! Oh, piece of cake," I say as we sandbag it to nearside James, letting that yellow light turn red. I've had urine on the bus before, and it's low on my list of favorites; we find a safe compromise that's far enough within the rules to work for everyone. 

I exhale after it's all over. There's a thousand different directions the mood could've taken. I'm grateful for every particular that allowed it all to work. The mood lives in the loaded mysteries of the ever-evolving moment- her day before she found my bus, my disposition before she entered, her willingness to play along with me, the light and traffic cycles, the smiles on other passengers' faces, the energy and acknowledgement made possible by all, in so many minute and burgeoning ways. 

Glad she chose my bus.

A continuation of the ride detailed in the previous post~

The chat seat is instantly replaced by a fellow in his thirties, dressed in muted colors, dark shaved head, fashionably crisp black denim and a silver chain necklace.  We start off with the weather as our entry point- "finally got them clouds out the way-" before moving on to discussing the 4. I love it when I can get this route, except when I can't. 

"This gotta be pretty low seniority though, right?"
"Oh yeah," we laugh. "Nobody wanna touch this!" Just myself and several other intrepid souls. 
"How about the express routes?"
"You know, they're really easy," I say as we negotiate the traffic circle at Norman, "but they can also get kinda repetitive. You got the same group every single day, sometimes it'll literally be exactly the same sixty people, good people, but they all been working, they're quiet, they got their earphones in," 

He's nodding. The crowd is starting to thin out. We're no longer the center of attention; we're in the corner of someone's house party, conversing in low tones.
"Out here," I continue, gesturing at the Judkins neighborhood surrounding us, "people talk to each other, they know each other's names, it's a different universe..."

I haven't brought up the status, race, or income differences between the two types of demographics we're talking about. I've been tiptoeing around it, but he feels comfortable enough to mention it, adding, "there's the attitude thing."
"Exactly, the Bellevue thing."
"Yeah, man."
"They'll be lookin' down on me like I'm the help! Like I was furniture! And I'll be like, in my head, 'man, you don't need to do that!'"

The laughter this elicits from him is a sound closer to rueful understanding than any appreciation of rich humor. He's been there. We tentatively explore the issue together, big black man and skinny Asian kid, opening up more and more as we go along; 

"You know, some of it might be, I bet a lot a these guys ain't never worked no public service jobs, so they just ain't never had the experience of talkin to strangers. They may just not know what it's like, not be comfortable,"
"Yeah."
"But man, that high-up thing, sometimes it's just like, wow,"
"And it don't matter what color they are neither."
"Exactly! Exactly!" 
"I got three kids, athletes, growed up in Issaquah, and man, you can tell the pressure they be up against, the pressure to be concerned about status, conforming to societal norms,"
"Shoot. I love it when kids talk to strangers. We don't really raise 'em to do that, but it's great to see them get comfortable with their surroundings, willing to interact with people that's not their friends or parents...to see them try to get ahead in a good way, you know?"
"I do know!"
"'Cause the pressure to not do that can be pretty strong."
"My fifteen-year old is just like that. He be talkin' to everyone, whoever standing next to him, he'll strike up a conversation."
"Sounds beautiful." Stewardship. I'm excited for the future that lives in that boy's head. Global community starts with nodding at the person walking by. 
"Hey man, it was a pleasure talkin' to you."

Later on, I, along with two young teen girls, are honored with a conversation of a slightly different substance:

I'm en route to Base, picking up stragglers on Rainier. I enjoy doing this because it makes things easier for the in-service routes, along with of course saving the passengers time. The two girls were way out of their depth, abandoned by their ride and anxious to get out of the ghettofabulous Valley and back to safety in West Seattle. 

Enter a man in his forties, dressed in stained blue coveralls, crumbs around his mouth, sticking to the bristles in his swarthy, weather-beaten skin. They lean away from him as he swaggers onto the bus, and look bewildered when I greet him as a friend.

"How you been?"
"Is' been okay," he says, directing his attention to the girls with great focus. Out comes the following monologue: 

"I been busy paintin.' I love boats. I love cats, too. I painted my boat the other day, got it out in the sunshine, put a new coat a primer all over, all set to go. I set it out for several hours, gave it time to cure. You know what my cat did? I tell you what my cat did. She done walked all over that brand new primer, leavin' paw prints every which where. We talkin' all over. Walkin' around like it wasn't no big thing, without a care in the world. I love her to death, though. Ain't no rats or scorpions up in my houseboat. All them other houseboats be infested, bugs crawlin' everywhere, you know haa' it is. You know what I call my cat, what name I got my cat? I tell you. I call her Fathead. I call her Fathead, 'cause she bring me all the rats and mice. She take care a everything, when you got a cat, they keep the place clean, don't matter no paw prints all up in the primer. End a the day that don't matter. You can sleep easy at night, don't gotta worry about no bed bugs and shit. Check this out. She bring me these little mice, right before she kills 'em, little clumps of fur writhing around, and then BAM! She END those mothers. You two girls have a nice evening now."