"Here, smell my hands," she says, a middle-aged Native woman on the 358 shoving her hands inches from my nose. Her unwashed hair has a natural charm to it, but I daresay the malodorous reeking funk of her hands does not. "Smells just like coconut, huh?"

"Smells fantastic," I respond. That's what we call a little white lie.

It's in the deep early morning of Black Friday, on the 358. Freezing outside. We're on a Reduced Weekday schedule, and as such I'm the first trip north from downtown at 5:51am. Nobody's out here, except about thirty methadone people, on their way to 165th. Some of them have been waiting for way too long, unaware of the reduced schedule. I'm impressed by their patience upon my greeting them. A few service workers keep us company. About forty friends in all, cruising up Aurora; the blue interior lighting is dim, the windows are dark, but it's warm and cozy in here. Conversation is lively in the front half, and I listen and learn as we leisurely roll along, trying not to run early. One man in a bundle of jackets opens a window.

I hear, "Hey, somebody close that window!"
"You know how cold it is out there?"
"Yeah, close that shit. If you open that again, we're gonna tear you apart."
"Fuck you."
"Fact of life, asshole, on a morning like this. Just take off your jacket."
"Who opened a fuckin' window?"
"How we doin' back there?" I ask.
"Take off your fuckin' jacket if you're warm," a woman says to the window-opener. "The rest of us are freezing."
Me again: "how's it goin,' guys?"
"This fool's beggin' for it!"
"You want me to turn off the heat?" I ask him. "If somebody wants me to turn off the heat for a while, I'm happy to do it,"
"Could you please," replies the Jacket Bundle.
"Sure." 

Two or three seconds pass, and it's as if nothing's happened:
"Hey, how's your sister doing?"
"Aw, she's okay."
"I got hit with a baseball bat thirty-two times, right here." The woman pulls back her hair above her left ear. 
"Oh, I'm sorry," I say, turning around to look. The faint blue light renders everything like an indistinct dream; idly I wonder how many watts these bulbs are. We must be in a recession. On the side of her face is what looks like a receding black hole, with dark varicose veins spidering out.
"Yeah, this guy just kept getting angrier and angrier, wouldn't stop hitting me, finally I had to..."
"Sounds like a coward, he does, is what that sounds like," says the man across from her.
"Yeah, wow. I'm sorry."
"You point him out to me next time he come around."
"I'm glad you're still here!"
"Me too!"
I add, "I mean, I'm glad you still have the motor skills, and speech. That's a modern miracle."
"Thank you."

The energies gather round her in support, and we listen and console her, tilting the perception to make the positives glint a little brighter. It's an impromptu support group now, searching for the sides of a diamond that can still shine. She settles into herself, bolstered by our encouragement. It's getting colder in here, but it feels just as warm. I wave to the back door as the Latino day laborers step out at Home Depot.

Together we've changed the air completely. "Hey, good to see you again," one man says as they all leave at 165th, the THS stop. Even Jacket Bundle responds to my good graces. I bid them all farewell. If I hadn't gotten out of bed this morning (at 3:56am, no less!), who knows how the conversation might've turned. At the least, I know I wouldn't have had the chance to witness the warmth they made for each other. 

Later on, a young G asked me, "you always drive the 358?"
"Every day!"
"Don't let it break you!"
"Thanks, man!"

Routes and people like this don't break me. They keep me going.

The Breda 253, coming from Seattle, was crowded. I was eleven, standing near the front. The driver, an older white man, had a sailor's cap on. His blue eyes twinkled as he nodded at the masses getting on at Bellevue Transit Center.

“You’re an asshole,” a young black man next to me told him, for no significant reason I can remember. I looked to the driver, to see how he would respond.

“Yup,” the driver calmly replied in a quiet voice.
“No, you’re the worst bus driver ever.”
“Yes, you’re right,” the driver responded to the boy’s continued tirade. He was getting past the moment, a duck’s waxed feathers, moving beyond judgment and hurt; letting the boy get it all out at no loss to him. Untouchable. Eventually the boy didn't how to continue. You can cut down a stiff tree, but you can't cut down reeds blowing in the wind.

I was cowed into awe by the driver’s patience and perspective. That’s character, I thought. These are the great people I look up to. You don’t see role models like that in the movies. 

(That's my chicken scratch on the transfer above; it says "don't let it break you." Advice from a passenger.)

"Hey, wait a sec. Hang on a sec," he says from the front, moving out the front doors.
"Okay."

He's the runner from this story. Wiry and mousy, with very pale skin. Imagine a less handsome version of French character actor Dominique Pinon; or rather, don't. His glasses and balding pate give him the look of an off-duty high school professor. We're at 100th, and there's a woman outside. He steps out for a moment.

"Hi hi," he says to her. "Will you go home with me?"

She's taller and heavier than he is, in a business casual outfit. This is Motel Row, but she's definitely no streetwalker. Streetwalkers don't wear mohair sweaters and print blouses with slacks. Maybe I should've told him.

With no hint of fear, and trying to conceal laughter, she says, "no."
"You're not gonna go home with me?"
"Huh-uh, no."
He scrambles back on the bus like a teenager returning from the girl's lunch table, turned down by his crush. 
"Didn't work out?"
"She wouldn't go him with me."
"Well shoot, man."
"I can't go home alone."

Sometimes you just don't ask. I'd been laughing at him internally over the absurdity- the complete absurdity- of the situation, but I stopped when I heard the bracing honesty in his voice. He is lonely. 

"I can sympathize with that," I said quietly, unsure of whether he heard me. More than one great writer has designated loneliness as the premier, fundamental element of the human experience, the motivating factor behind most actions and the sensation which paradoxically unites us all, in that we all feel it, surfacing and resurfacing. We do what we can to find belonging. Who among us hasn't searched blindly, in all the wrong places, for connection- with others, with God, with ourselves? 

Union Street. Parthid's in the house: a lively, well-dressed Indian man.

"You used to drive the 358, right?"
"Yes! You remember me!"
"Of course!"
"I hope I left a good impression!"
 
He's here on a three year work Visa. Research, mostly neuroscience.
"That sounds great," I say, mentally trying to situate myself in that world for a moment. "Pretty good funding for that?"
"Yes, but there's been a lot of cutbacks in research, since the economy."
"Mmm."
"Some of them you can't really cut though. I mean, you can cut things like, you know. Marine science. Nobody really needs..."
"Yeah!"
"But mental health, brain research..."
"Kind of important!"

We both burst out laughing. Something about the fact that we're sitting at a light at Third and James, surrounded by the Frye, the Morrison, and Triangle Park, makes it all the funnier. Goya-esque figures lurk all around us. 
"Yeah, we sort of need to continue studying that!"
"That's good," I say. "The need will always be there." 
"Absolutely."
"Which is good. Reliable."

We move on to discussing Visas and green cards; I mention a friend of mine, who was recently only too thrilled to finally get her green card, after a long fight and many delays. "So what do you think you'll want to do in three years?" 
"I like it here. I love it, actually. The people are friendly, the weather's nice. The country's really big. And it's great for research. There is still a lot of money set aside here for research, and so many Universities working on different things; you have access to a lot of different lab equipment,"
"Even though I bet your home country has a lot of technology,"
"True. the technology is there, but so much of the research is being done here, results and hardware don't have to be shipped across the ocean, you know. Don't have to wait three weeks for results, and so on. Anyways, it was nice talking with you!"
"I'm so glad you got on my bus!"
"I like it when the driver is chatty!"
"Oh, I'm so glad!"
"It really makes a difference. To get on the bus like this after a long day of work..."

I really am glad. I'm thrilled but not surprised when the poor appreciate my humanity toward them; I'm sure those more well off are no less cognizant of a job well done, but I'm gladdened when they too express the value they see in direct human interaction. It doesn't happen as often. The personal touch. Those slightly older can recall the days when customer service was nothing but; our self-worth and sense of belonging can reach heights unfound in self-checkout machines and canned announcements. 

Parthid and I shake hands at Main Street. I may not see him again, but going our separate ways I imagine he and I both have a different conception of community on this day than if we had remained silent and uninvolved. It was worth it to talk. The pleasantries and sweet nothings do count toward something tangible; you feel differently when you're surrounded by friends.

...And a big THANK YOU to everyone who came to the opening reception! All caps don't do you justice. Such enthusiasm and energy keep me going. You're all wonderful!

Images from the show are here, along with information about the show itself, which is by no means over- I'll post about when I'll be there (likely every third Thursday night) between now and the Closing Show on March 20th!

Later on that night: Mike, early fifties with glasses, African American. Haven't seen him before.

I greet him as a friend, at Harrison Street inbound. "How's it goin'?"

I remember a newcomer once commenting on how amazed she was watching me drive- she couldn't believe how many people I knew. I don't recall remember the particulars, but I wonder if she simply thought I knew them, and that my tone and delivery was of the type she thought was normally reserved for friends.

"Aw, I'm okay," he responds.
"Stayin' warm, I hope!"
"Yeah, this cold is too much for me. I'm from Louisiana."
"I'm from LA,"
"Okay,"
"Yeah, I'm not built for it. This stuff is unnatural! But I'm glad its not as cold as so many other places."
"True."

He seems a quieter fellow, but I can't help but chat. Where does my desire to connect come from? I'm riding the high of this last evening, and the elation is flowing over the brim. I'm a child who's just finished a drawing, and just have to show it to somebody. Doesn't matter who it is. I have to let it out, this joy, share it with whoever's around me. We cruise underneath the trees at John, that section on Fairview that has no streetlights. The traffic signals of Denny Way reach out from up ahead.

"It's my last day on the route, so I'm trying to live it up."
He may be in quiet mode tonight, but he's intrigued by my buoyant spirit. "What's your next route?"
"358!"
"Oh. Wow!"
I'm laughing. "I like it though. I think I'm a little crazy up here." Pointing at my ear. He grins. "Time goes by so fast. I start the shift, look at my watch, all of a sudden I'm done." 
"Yeah, it gets that way for sure. You got a good attitude though, bro. Lookin' out for the people. I ride that 124,"
"Oh, yeah,"
"'Nuff said, right?"
"My parents and I rode that all the time when I was little, the 174." I pause for a moment, lost in thought, recalling those lost days. The old MAN artics, with their brown seats and faux wood paneling. Holes torn in the gray fabric of the articulated section; the novelty of a bus that turned in the middle. I recall a parade of different sensibilities all around us, a generally festive air. There's great value in acclimating children to being around others. In riding the public bus they become accustomed to the variety of human life, and the equality inherent in sharing the same space. I remember being amongst everyone, looking out the window at the place that sold gargoyles and garden statues. Is it still there, I wonder, as we turn right on Stewart.

"Hey, how's that 124 now that it's offa Fourth ave, and goes through Georgetown?"
"Iss a little more mellow."
"Yeah, I was gonna say. You're not hitting all those liquor stores on Fourth."
"But you still got those guys on Marginal."
"Gets kinda funky?"
"Oh yeah!" There's his laugh coming out.
"There's good people everywhere though."
"So true," he says with a great and happy sigh, as if quietly thrilled there are those who can see this. "So true. Oh yeah."

He bids me farewell at Pine. A hollow voice calls out, followed by a hooded face coming up in the darkness: "Eey, bro! When you comin back to tha' three five eight?"

"I'ma be there next week, finally got it back! You'll have to come out, man, we'll go fo'a ride!"
He grins wide in approval. "Yeeeeeah," he says.

People often ask when I'm coming back to the 7. That's the route people remember me on the most. After that is the 358. Usually I say something like I hope so, or the next chance I get; I'm so glad I could tell him actually that I really would be on it soon.