A quick note of thanks to all who post comments; thank you for your interest. I read and respond to every comment made on this site.

It's been a while since we've had a longer post. Here's part one~

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One conversation begins and it snowballs. People want to talk. They see I'm a chatterbox, and they come on up as soon as the current chattee vacates the chat seat. An older lady I haven't seen in a while occupies the floor currently. We talk about travelling to Portland, how she doesn't give her son any money anymore, how he makes a lot more than she does, and how, well, he's more than just a little spoiled. Got to look out for yourself, I tell her. 

The passengers seated around us look on, a genial collective presence listening in on their way home. Eyes behind sunglasses smiling, faces intrigued, silent but attentive in this new space.

A few fans get on- regulars who've intermittently been on the 4 over the years. Today the Egyptian queen is here- slender and tall, strong in cheekbones and character. After a moment a one-eyed godfather plops down in the chat seat. 

"How's your day goin'?"
"Ooouuuhhh," he says.
"Oh, man. That bad, huh?"
"Yeah, I just got a phone call."
"Uh oh."

He really is a godfather. His goddaughter has gotten herself into some serious trouble, expensive trouble, and he's pondering the necessary course of action. We get into serious mode. 
"Sometimes you gotta hit bottom 'fore you can start goin back up." 
"Exactly, we got to consider, what's really the best course of action in the long term..."

Later, the kid comes up again. This boy was here the other day, young dark-skinned fellow, not yet a teenager; he stood right behind me for a while before getting off, silent. His observant eyes watch me as I drift through the Central District talking to people. You know he wants to talk, but doesn't just yet, simply sharing the space, silently taking part in the air of what's going on at the front of the bus. Right before stepping out, he had said, "you enjoy your job more than any other driver I ever seen." It's the sort of sentence where you can tell it was premeditated. Sometimes things are easier to say as you're leaving. 

Today he's here again, stalking up tentatively, with quiet attentive eyes. I say how's it goin,' looking at him. In a loud, deep, and distinctly caucasian gregarious voice he responds- oh wait, that's not him, it's the man behind him, with the thick-frame glasses: "Goin great, how 'bout yourself?" 
I respond to White Glasses, but I make sure Observing Eyes feels included, asking after his day as well. Glasses, in his 20s, is a hipster sort of fellow but with a more open presence, and he can't seem to stop himself from blurting it out: 
"I dont know if people tell you this, but you've gotta be the most positive bus driver I've ever seen. Seriously!" He gives me his dead serious look, letting me in on the gravity of the sentiment.

Behind him an unseen female concurs, saying, "yeah, this guy's amazing."
"Oh, no," I say. "I try!"
"Dude, you have it awesome, that you can be like this, all day,"
Oh, goodness. I don't know how to handle compliments. "I just really enjoy being out here. I try," I stammer out. 
"It seem like you don't have to, man!"
Unseen Female: "Yeah, you are just incredible..."
"Oh, you guys!"
The bus laughs.
"You're killin' me here!"
"It's like the mutual appreciation group, huh?"
"Makin' me blush! Listen, thank you all for bringin all this positive energy in here, it goes both ways," I exclaim, trying to turn it around on them. I mean that. Margolis once rode my 70 and noted how much I lit up when the construction guys got on at Harrison; such present souls rejuvenate me.

The boy comes forward on his way out, somewhat sidelined in conversation by Glasses. I make sure I say something to him: "hey, man. Have' good night tonight." Moments like that can really mean something when you're younger; at least they did for me. 

The next chat seat-er is an older and very slim European woman. She's on her way to a meeting at her children's school. 
"I hope it's not some serious disciplinary thing,"
"Oh God no, it's a PTA meeting!"
"Excellent! That means donuts!"
"Yes, exactly." As she steps out at The Promenade she says, "I hope you know you're wonderful." It was the tone not of a compliment but of a reminder, as in- yes, be modest, but don't hide from the good parts of yourself. 


This ride to be continued~

He seems quiet, perhaps even surly, but I feel compelled by curiosity to will myself out of silence. "How's it goin'?"

"Okay." He seems prematurely middle-aged, most likely from hard labor; there's a layer of dust on his hands and clothes, casting his being in a uniform sandy color. Stubble and wireframe glasses catch the evening light.

"Time to go home?"
"I wish. Comin' from. Just finished work, hadta come out here."
We're at 198th, nearly 200 blocks north of the city. "That's a drag, comin' all this way up from town."
"Yeah, I do roofing."
"That's work."
"Now I'm goin' to my girlfriend's house."
He sounds depressed about it. Even the working class have champaigne problems. Must be human nature. I say, "Oh, that's not so bad!"
"Yeah, she wanted me to come out."
"Well, a ladyfriend is a good thing to have."
He acknowledges me with present silence, and adds, "her brother just died last week."
"Oh no."
"He was drinking, I mean he was a drunk. He fell in the bathtub and cracked his face open."
"Shoot," I said, processing. "Oh." Worlds can exist in that one syllable. Images and memories fly through my head as I say, "Oh, I'm so sorry."
"Yeah,"
"When was this?"
"Two days ago. So she asked me to come up here, her mom's up here..."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Well, something was gonna happen, eventually. The way he carried on."
"Yeah, tha' type a lifestyle,"
"Always something, hurting himself, hurting the people around him, drivin' all us crazy... I don't go there anymore. I'm sober now. Seven years. Drove my car straight into a ditch, that was it for me."
"That's a good little warning sign." 
"Ya think?"

Finally, there it is- a rich, wide, real smile on his sandy face. Malcolm Gladwell wrote that fake smiles and real smiles use nearly all the same muscles, but we can intuit the subtle difference so easily. Here he is now, the twenty-first century working man, raised up by one of his fellows, still grinning as he walks away. I sit in traffic and watch him stride quickly into the distance ahead. There's an undeniable bounce in his step, entirely at odds with the dilapidated landscape around him. He's walking into the American sunset, buoyant, learning it all into a new perspective. Never too late to begin again.

Photo by Victoria Holt.

UPDATE: I will unfortunately not be able to attend this week's opening. I will be at the remaining third Thursdays between now and March, as indicated below.

Did you miss the opening of my current show? No worries! It runs til April 1st, and there's a closing show on March 20th, which I encourage you to come to. If you can't make that date, once again- have no fear! There's monthly opening's every third Thursday night, from 6-9. I'll be at all of those, EXCEPT this week.

This Thursday's opening is billed as the "Kate Alkarni Holiday Gift Sale," as much of the work is discounted; there will be over 200 paintings priced between $40-100. Additionally, my smaller pieces will be marked down by 10%.

She's young, twenties, looking just this side of homeless. Those plastic bags weigh heavily, stretching taut in her grasp, threatening to slip out any moment now. Why don't we all have three hands?

"Looks like you got your hands full!"
"Yeah."
"You been shoppin'?"
"No. I don't really go shopping."
"Yeah, me neither."
"Hey, I was able to get on Supplemental Security Income (SSI)." She says the full phrase instead of the acronym, thinking I may not know. 
"Oh, I'm glad! Did it take a long time? I hear that can take a lot of,"
"Yeah. Took forever."
"I'm glad you stayed on it."
"Yeah, my family kept pushing me. When I finally got food stamps my Grandma shook my hand."

I looked at her smiling face. I didn't miss a beat as I said, "that's so great," but her last sentence stilled something inside me. Her bald voice was plaintive and honest, unaware of the smallness of the event she had just described- because, of course, for her it wasn't small. Some of us don't have the luxury of being acknowledged by our loved ones whenever we so choose. It was one of those statements which unwittingly reveals volumes, and I'm glad she felt comfortable enough- in my living room full of strangers- to share it.

I imagine if she came across this post she might feel embarrassed. Don't be, my friend. I hope you can instead feel proud- of possessing a character whose virtue isn't distracted by the supercilious judgments of others. People don't talk about character anymore; they talk about personality. I feel differently. Integrity, constitution, perception: for me these considerations trump temperament and lifestyle preferences any day. 

I share her open honesty in same spirit in which she did with me- truthful in a public space, bold enough to be vulnerable, and unafraid to sound like anything other than what she was- excited about something real, and pure.


(The above image was taken at the old Women's Shelter, which once occupied what is now the American Hotel on King Street.)

On the 358:

"You're always happy," a passenger says, standing at the front. It's dark and rainy out, in the upper reaches of Aurora. 
"I can't help myself!"
"That makes happy people happier, but sometimes it makes miserable people more miserable." 
"I know. I don't wanna do that. What's the solution?"
"Sympathy, to have sympathy, to care."
"I agree," I say. "Honesty."
"Yeah, no bullshit sympathy."
"I don't wanna pity them, I wanna understand them."
"You care about 'em. That makes it work. Don't listen to me though, I'm crazy."
"Oh, I think I'm the one who's crazy. I love this stuff, all this." Gesturing.
"I had four outta five psychiatrists tell me I was crazy."
"You and me both, man!"

The man behind him has a comment he'd like to add: "ISS DA SANE ONES YOU GOTS TA WATCH OUT FO'!"

I'm too nonplussed to respond at the time, but after I stop laughing I consider how much merit there is in his statement. We're at the tail end of the long trip out, over the full length of the corridor, and on board we've had all manner of miscreants, ne'er-do-wells, JDs and beggar-philosophers. The only person to snap rudely at me was a well-to-do County employee, upset in her  misinterpretation of the schedule (her coworker behind her attempted to educate her, to no avail).

Recently I was struck by how rarely people are annoyed by my ebullient attitude. Why don't they get aggravated? Day after day, listening to the predictably buoyant announcements, enthusiastic greetings, that face in the mirror up there, sometimes unable to hide a smile...

It's easy to take issue with the happiness of others when it's couched in ignorance. In those instances it isn't really their happiness which irks us- it's their naivete, their entitlement, narrow-mindedness- whatever the other element is. Based on my own experience, I'm confident my attitude doesn't stem from such origins. But how do my passengers know that? They don't know my life story, after all.

I think it has something to do with the fact that I'm driving a public bus. And not just any bus, but these routes, in those neighborhoods... my fellow drivers and myself are doing a job with so much exposure to life that a Pollyanna outlook is all but impossible. I have tremendous respect for the other operators whose stellar perspectives far eclipse my own; the janitorial people I talk to, those in medical, construction, postal, and the like, or homelessness; to see smiles on these weathered and overworked faces moves me to my core. If someone doing heavy work is obviously, truthfully happy, (s)he possess a resilience that's real by virtue of the fact that you can see it. It's self-evident, and it inspires me.*

Or, to put it in more breviloquent terms, I'll quote one of my passengers: 
"Hey, the bus driver's having a good day. That means it's a good fuckin' day."


*This is a continuation of earlier thoughts. If you haven't already, check out an earlier post from last year for discussion on different forms of positivity and how to define realistic optimism.

Is there a Real Change vendor you walk past in the course of your daily routine? If so, I encourage you to buy a copy of this week's issue, available today- there's an article on me in it! Written by the incomparable Tricia Sullivan, Real Change Vendor and Board Member.