You'll have to forgive several extra days of silence on the blog, as I'll be out in LA this week. Meanwhile, however:

----

No fear. People can smell that. Just project friendly confidence. Greet him as you would your buddy, just come over for a bite of barbeque.

Upward nod of the head, companionable: "Hey, man."

He's thirties, slightly older than me, in worn Adidas running pants and a dark jacket; a scrappy vision in deep black, save for the whites of his bloodshot eyes. There's a glint, a cornered bulge in the left side of his jacket, above the waistline; you know what that is.

Him, swaggering in place, grabbing the door handrail to keep from falling backwards: "Ey, bro!" he says in a first-generation accent. "Wha's goin' on?"

He recognizes me, suddenly excited, and I register the familiarity of this human face. I extend my hand with enthusiasm, giving him the classic handshake, firm and at an angle. Often I do the fistpound, and occasionally one of the many street handshakes; but most regularly I find myself settling for the firm classic. Why mess with an original? 

There is something genuinely appealing to me about this man's smile, and as such my enthusiasm manifests itself with my elbow extended away from my body. He likes it. He apologizes for not shaking my hand correctly, but of course "it's all good." I'm exhilarated by his kindhearted side.

"I doan' see you on dis route befo'!"
"Yeah, man! I remember you from that number 7 bus! How you been?"

Our 358 lumbers away from the zone, powering up the crest in the road. The electric assist drops out as the diesel kicks in with a fluid push. We're on our way.

"I been great. I come from Tukwila, getting all my paperwork straight, work permits, everything ready to go."
"All cleared away!"
"I can do anything, man, oil derrick, boats, floor and motor, construction,"
"Heavy work,"
"Yeah."
"Nice. Ready for anything." 
He leans in, a friend standing at the front, explaining the particulars. I'm all ears.
"Plus I'm an immigrant, so I send the money to my family back home. Africa."
"That's good of you, man. You're a gentleman, takin' care a your people."
"Oh yeah, man, you got to do it."
"I think tha's beautiful."

We carried on like co-conspirators up there, each warming to the sounds of the other's voice. He was no intimidating figure now. Why treat him as the "other," when he was no different? I saw and heard him as I hear myself, clawing through the vagaries of life, searching for sounds of comfort. Two people talking in the dark, united in the ongoing quest to make life familiar.

"Awright, I get out here."
"Good to see you!"
"Yeah, man!"
The difficulty of the labor he wants to embark upon sits on my mind. "Stay strong," I say.
"Always!" he responded, with a newfound energy in his voice. It wasn't there in those first moments when he stepped on.

Left-turn signal, as I pulled back into traffic. I smiled to myself. If I accomplished nothing else the entire day, nothing besides contributing in some small way to the creation of that energetic timbre I just heard, well, that was reason enough for me to come to work.

We'll call him Grizzly Alan. Let's just say he balances out the status quo (and to be frank, the level of energy) on the 70. He's one of my favorite passengers on that route. No smartphone or business casual here- he strides confidently on board, sweaty and shirtless in high summer, with a matted goatee, cooler, backpack and dog in tow. Tipping the scales away from haute commuter-land and bringing it all back home. Us folks on the 70 skew younger, and Alan seems about my generation. He's quite educated despite his appearance; he's the fellow referred to at the end of this post, wherein he, a law student and myself passed the time in all manner of intellectual discussion. Alan lives underneath I-5.

"Hope you have a safe rest of the night," I tell him as he gathers his things.
"Thanks. I hope you don't get shot at!"
"Me too!" I laughed. "It'd be kind of a bummer!"
He grinned and then spoke seriously. "You won't," he said. "It's all about the attitude."
"I think so too. I really believe that."
"Yeah. We have a lot more control over situations than we're aware."

He said it with such confidence. I for one could not agree more. What's stronger than bulletproof glass? Good customer service. Anticipating others' needs. Empathy.

Hello, all!

The above announcement poster is for an upcoming show opening in just two weeks time- I have over twenty brand-new works featured as part of a group show loosely themed around transportation. This time all the work is photography- shot on film, printed in a darkroom, and all the rest, as per my usual! 

The opening reception, as noted above, is:

Thursday, November 21st, from 6pm to 9. Show continues through April 1, with a Closing Show on March 20th (also 6-9) as well. Yes, there's food and wine. Yes, it's free!

It's located in the Seattle Design Center building (plenty of parking), which is at 5701 6th Ave S; Kate Alkarni Gallery, where this show takes place, is inside the building at Atrium Ste. 221. 

More directions and info about Kate's wonderful gallery here. Did you miss my last show? Check out the (in)famous video speech I gave here, or read the Seattle Times review here.

It'd be a pleasure to see you there. If you're reading this, it's because you're invited. 

Lady 1 and Lady 2 are at the front. Lady 1 is described here. Lady 2, older and white, has just stepped on; a street denizen with wizened eyes.

Lady 1: "Where you gettin' off at?"
Lady 2: "I don't have to tell you that."
Lady 1: "Why not?"
Lady 2: "'Cause it's my business. Mind your own business."
Lady 1: "You're being unfriendly. I bet- I bet you hate your job."
Lady 2: "You need to mind your own business."
Lady 1: "Driver, this lady's bein' rude to me."

Me: "Yeah?" My gears are turning, trying to figure out the best approach.
Lady 1: "Yeah. She's being unfriendly."
Me: "Maybe she's had a tough day (I should have said "long day." More diplomatic). You never know."
Lady 1: "What? Oh."
Lady 2: "Why'djoo ask me where I'm gettin' off?"
Lady 1: "'Cause I thought you might be friendly."

A pause, containing deafening silence-

Lady 1: "Driver, why aren't you doing anything? She's being unfriendly."
Me: "Well, you know, that's allowed. Sometimes people are gonna be nice, and sometimes not nice. We can't all be 100 percent all the time."
Lady 2: "That's right."
Lady 1 [to Lady 2]: "Well, I hope you hate your job and, and, and, that people are really rude to you today."
Me: "Oh, we don't need to say stuff like that! That's unfriendly!"
Lady 1: "Oh, I'm just getting back at her for what she said to me."
Me: "No, that's no way to do things. We don't need to do that."

Me, into the mic: "Our next stop is Bell Blanchard, Belltown. Here's Bell Street. After this we'll go to Virginia."
People file out; I check for incoming passengers, and there aren't any. Doors closing, but-
Man 1, inside: "Hey, can I get out?"
Me: "Sure!"

He steps out, and here's a man outside with a cane. It's Man 2.
"Heey!" I say, kneeling the coach.

Man 2: "Hey, bro. I didn't mean to call you dipshit,"
Me: "Hey, I didn't hear anything! Come on in! How you doin'."
Man 2: "Oooohhh,"
Me: "Could be better, could be worse?"
Man 2: "Yeah. We'll go with that." 
Me: "Yeah, why not. Lookin' at the bright side."
Man 2: "There's a bright side?"
Me: "It's somewhere out there!"

We service the Virginia Zone, and move down to Pike. Soon Man 2 and I are praising the beautiful weather. It's afternoon, but it's foggy.

Third and Pike. 

I turn to Lady 2 as she walks out, saying quietly, "thanks for being patient."
Lady 2: "No problem. You take care."
Me: "You too."
Lady 1: "Can you drop me off up there?"
Me: "Sure, lemme pull forward for ya."

Inwardly, I'm thinking: this 125 in front of us is doing a road relief. I'll pull around him and block temporarily while our friend here steps out. Should only take a second.
Lady 1: "I was just asking where she was going, and she got all mad at me. I wasn't trying to make her,"
Me, making sure we have enough clearance as we pull around the 125: "Yeah, I know you weren't trying to get on her nerves. People are just touchy sometimes. We gotta be patient."
Lady 1: "Are you gonna be here tomorrow?"
Me: "Yes indeed, I'm here every weekday, same time same place! You can ride my bus anytime you like!"
Lady 1: "Thank you."

As she steps out, a man in a chair with two stumps for legs signals me. It's Man 3. I signal in return, and start deploying the lift. 

The remaining exchanges below took place in under a minute, in what felt like a single sustained breath, nary a pause for air, your brain intercutting the onslaught as the world ramps up into a sort of multitasking overdrive:

Lady 3: "Do you go to, are you gonna go down, uh,"
My internal monologue: This bus is too close to the curb to deploy the lift. I need to pull away about 6 inches.
Me, to Lady 3: "Be with you in one moment." 
Me, to Man 3: "I gotta pull forward to do the lift, gimme a hot second."
Man 3: "Cool."
Me: "Okay."
Lady 3: "Do you go to,"
Me: "I'm gonna go down Third to Columbia. Wanna go to Columbia?"
Me to Man 3: "There we go." 
Lady 3: "Yes."
Man 3 looks like he needs a push; I'm blocking everything; that 125 is definitely chomping at the bit by now. He wants to get out of here, and can't. I'm at a mild diagonal, and he, the 125 driver right behind me, can see me- I wave at him, in an effort to placate him. Can't see who it is-
Me: "Do you need a push?"
Man 3: "Yeah."
Me: "Let's give you a push." I dart out of the coach and push him up the ramp, wheel him into position- "let's see here, we got one [strap] down, don't mind me, I'm just gonna reach in here,"
Man 3: "I wanna go to the last,"
Man 4, boarding: "Hey man,"
Me: "Oh hey,"
Man 3: "Go to the last,"
Man 4: "I'll be darned if I can find my transfer, somewhere in here,"
Me: "That's fine, you can pay me next time,"
Man 5, currently seated by the front: "I can get this." Gesturing at the wheelchair straps.
Me: "Wha- oh, thanks! I can get that. Thank you! I should be payin' you guys! I'm just a volunteer bus driver here!"
Man 2: "We'll be callin' for that paycheck!"
Me: "I got you covered!"
Man 3: "Thanks, bro."
Me: "Sure. Thank the fine gentleman here."
Lady 4, now entering: "Do you go to Capitol Hill?"
Me: "No, but if you go across the street right over there, you can grab a 49, or a 10..."
Lady 4: "A 49 or a 10..."
Me: "Yeah, lotsa good stuff over there."
Lady 4: "Thanks."
Me: "Sure."
Man 3: "I wanna go to the last stop on this treet."
Me : "My last stop on this street is Columbia. I can take you to Columbia?"
Man 3: "Thanks."
Lady 3: "Do you stop at Columbia?"
Me: "I do stop at Columbia! Be happy to take you over there." Into the mic: "alright everyone, time to get outta here!"

Forty-five, maybe fifty seconds. It's a breathless rush of exhilaration. Ah, yes. I was meant to be here. I take the light, waving a big smile at the drivers across the street.

Sho Luv stops by again.

We're discussing a situation "where I believe some profilin' was takin' place," as he puts it. He'd been chatting on the phone on an Eastside route.

"Were you loud?"
"No, man, I was conductin' a conversation in a regular tone,"
"Good, okay, good,"
"When the driver turns and says, 'you need to get off the bus. I need you offa my bus.' And I said, driver, what I'm doin' wrong?' And he says, 'this is my bus. And I say you got to get offa my bus 'cause you're talkin' on the phone.' But check this out. There's another lady also talkin' on her phone. He don't say nothin' to her!"
"And you weren't bein' loud now,"
"No, neither me nor the lady was loud. I think about stuff like that."
"That's cool. Lemme guess, she was white."

"She was white. And he keeps sayin,' 'this is my bus,' and I say, ' Driver, I don't think you can kick me out over this. You got another person here talkin' on the phone just the same as me.' So we wait around while he calls security."
"He calls the coordinator over talkin' on the phone? I can't believe that!" Definitely the Eastside. No downtown driver would bother; there's too much else to worry about.

"And here's the kicker, right? She, the lady herself,"
"The lady herself,"
"Asks him why he's tryna get rid a me and not her, though we both doin' the same thing!"
"Well, that's it then, man! Case closed! If we got her goin' on the record like that, well, if that's not profiling I don't know what is! What happened when the supervisor got there?"
"Nothin'. He came over and rolled his eyes."
"Nothin' else to do. Huge waste of resources."
"And driver just kep' saying, 'this is my bus. I can do what I want on my bus.'"
I steer around a pothole. "Man, I'm sorry that took place. That's an embarrassment, in this day and age. I apologize. And you know, the thing is, it is not his bus."
"No, it's not,"
"This bus does not belong to me; it belongs to the people,"
"Exactly!"
"My entire paycheck comes from all these good folks paying taxes. Without them I would be nowhere... You know he doesn't drive that thing home and park it in his garage at night..."

We laugh over the image. Both of us are the choir, and we're preaching to each other. There can be a benefit in that sometimes. I can sense a load released from his chest as he bids me farewell. Some measure of balance has been restored.

It is but a distant memory now.

Elementary school, off for the weekend. I was on a 358 (a brand new route at the time, replacing the old 6/359), and we had nearly completed the long trip in from the northern reaches of Aurora to downtown- but as we've noted before, it's never too late for things to go terribly awry.

Here we are at Pike, approaching the zone, everyone rising to deboard, when we realize there's a man on the floor, convulsing in the aisle. It's another epileptic seizure. Even at that age, I'd already witnessed the same on other buses (interestingly, almost exactly the same incident would take place over a decade later, at the same zone on the same route- except in that case the guy wasn't wearing pants!). 

While we waited for aid to arrive, I wandered outside the coach. Passengers were still filing out, and the driver, a thin, mild-mannered white face in his fifties, was out of his seat, moving about inside as he assisted passengers. I watched through the windows. He seemed to be looking for something. 

A young black man next to him, dressed in dark clothing, reached to the floor and pretended to start putting something in his jacket. Then he handed whatever it was to the driver, and they both began laughing together. The man said something, and the driver responded, and they laughed harder.

"Must be 358 humor," I thought to myself, not understanding. My elementary-age self stood there a moment longer, pondering. This I had not seen before. The seizure I could easily grasp; it was familiar. But what about this? Don't those two age-status-race-authority roles usually avoid each other, or ignore one another, or act in opposition?

I was a child. All children are born knowing race has no worth in the measure of a man. I could already see that adults often felt differently; but not these two. They were behaving just like my classmates on the school playground- which is to say, completely ignorant of race and class.

My heart beat faster, and a joy rose up in my throat. Looking at them, anything felt possible. Opposite ends closing a loop, existing in union, laughing together like a couple of regular fellows. Images like this can have quite an impact. They give shape and heft to the notion that surfaces count for little. Those two men will never know the impact their interaction had on my young self. It was only appropriate that the sun was shining.

I still feel that rush when I see such tableaus, or take part in such an interaction. The differences in culture, speech, clothing and the rest- when I see these ignored in favor of the commonalities of being human, a deep hunger is satisfied in me. It's very nearly a physical sensation, this world-affirming delight, and it thrills me unreasonably; this story is the first instance I can recall experiencing such a feeling. You'll have to forgive me the number of times I've written about people of different race or income groups interacting harmoniously. I never tire of it. In light of how often we see the opposite, I'm compelled to share. 


PS- That's me in the photograph, around 12 years old, wishing I was driving that (now-defunct) 4000 series!