"You look so young!" 

So says a middle-aged, dark-skinned gentleman with dreads down his back and a squat, muscled physique- the sort of built body that doesn't come from a gym, but is realized only through hard labor or combat.

"I am so young...for now!"

He's a compact bundle of energy, and I can't quite place his accent. Dark bruises cover his eyes.

"You smart young man, doin' this job! They don't give me no job when I come back from Afghanistan!"
"What?" I want to continue the conversation, but with the incoming tide of passengers he is swept behind me. We're at Third and Pine northbound. So many worlds, passing by in each person... 

Up next is an older woman struggling with a few bags and a hefty traveling suitcase. Her hands are full, and she is flustered. I try to calm her.

"If only we had three hands, right?"
She laughs in agreement. 
"Come on in, we can figure out the fare later. Looks like you've got enough to keep you occupied!"

Much later, when it comes time for her stop, she returns to the front and I ask if she's going abroad or coming home. The latter, she replies.
"Where are you returning from?"
"Connecticut. Visiting my daughter."
"Was it wonderful?"
"It was wonderful! And hot! Eighties, in fact!"
"In Connecticut, my goodness, I didn't know that was possible this time of year!"
"Hey. Thanks for being so kind when I was getting on. You've got a terrific attitude for this job."
"Oh. Thank you! That's the least I could do, really."
"Great perspective."

After she steps out, the man from earlier bounces up to the front. In practically the same breath which I bid the woman farewell, I slip back into conversation with him, reveling in the sudden transition.

"How's it goin'?"
"I been good, bro. You a good job you doin' a good job, goo' attitude. Renew your inner strength! Like the Qu'ran say! Let the spirit align with your qalb, inner heart nothing bother you. Stay strong within, in your heart renew, find the salam, then doesn't matter..."

He continues in a thickly accented and joyous jumble that defies comprehension. But I think I know what he means.

"Don't let the outside affect how you feel,"
"Yes yes! Stay strong on da inside, my fren!"
"Then you got nothing to worry about!"
"Exactly my brother! You have a good night, bye!"

He leaps off the bus with the same energy he had when he entered. I smile to myself. These two individuals had, in their own radically different approaches, expressed approximately the same thing- a celebration of a perspective they saw in me, likely because they possess that same outlook themselves. 

Neither one might be the other's first idea for a coffee date, but the two of them have more in common then I imagine either one is aware. I'm not going to set them up, but I do find it comforting!

Image courtesy Warner Bros.

Alas- it's a post that has nothing to do with buses. You'll have to allow me one or two of these a year. Perhaps you know I used to work for Erik Samdahl as a film critic when I lived in Hollywood. I'm compelled by the quality of the new film, Gravity, to share a review with you here:

Gravity
Dir. Alfonso Cuaron
2013; currently in wide release.

Synopsis: A medical engineer and an astronaut work together to survive after an accident leaves them adrift in space. Trailer. 

What remains when we strip away what we think forms our identity? After the accomplishments, relationships, surroundings, children, hobbies, skills and friends are put aside, what do we see? Can we consider ourselves not in relation to other entities, but simply as ourselves- and in that moment of reflection, can we stand what we see?

Alfonso Cuaron's new picture, Gravity, is about a woman struggling to survive in outer space. The capable and learned engineer- not an astronaut- Ryan Stone (Sandra Bullock) is cut loose from the safety zone of her vessel, and she is as untethered in the literal sense as she is in metaphorical terms. 
 
Outer space is an environment ripe for metaphors, because of its vastness and simplicity, but the film goes further: Stone is not simply untethered in the sense of being isolated from her loves and loved ones, but more fundamentally because she lacks a reason to live. Her sudden life-or-death dilemma introduces a mental state where survival is tantamount. In our contemporary culture, such thinking is fairly alien. It was not always so. We forget that less than fifty years ago the term "lifestyle" did not exist; before the postwar economic boom, people were too concerned with merely trying to endure. The surplus capital didn't exist yet for such monumental concern with superficialities. Certainly the idea of selecting and defining one's identity based on such must have seemed ridiculous. 

With her priorities suddenly thrown so far asunder, Bullock's character similarly perceives how superfluous such concerns are. The above list of identity-defining elements is unceremoniously shoved aside by her need to survive. Over time, we see they are not the sum of who she is. We are human, and we respond easily to what is quantifiable, but of course that's not all there is. I'm reminded of the reductive argument of nature vs. nurture; let us remember that more than those two elements, there is a third thing to consider- the living, breathing biological organism under question, which itself is capable of originating its own decisions. Parents know their children can behave in ways unrelated to external or hereditary influence. There is more.

The film allows us to spend time with someone who is forced to see herself removed of all context, and to behave- find reason to behave- through it. The prospect of confronting one's essential being can be daunting; witnessing the film ultimately ends up being an intensely comforting experience, as we and the character together realize that we are who we are in ways much stronger than we realize, and that there is a fortitude in us that the clutter of life sometimes hides.

All of which is not to say that Gravity doesn't also succeed tremendously as a breathtaking genre thriller of the highest order. There isn't anything else quite like it. Ms. Stone is working on the exterior of a satellite in the opening scene, when things first go terribly wrong, and they stay that way for the rest of the film. At a tightly constructed, economical 90 minutes, it's impossible to turn away from. The entire film is essentially a third act; we drop in en medias res, and experience the life-or-death throes typical of a film's climax for the entire duration of the picture. Nail-biting is an understatement. Best of all, this intensity is achieved without sacrificing a plausible milieu for the viewer; no outer-space explosions or explanations of jargon here.

Mr. Cuaron's grasp of technique is prodigious; collaborating again with ace cinematographer Emmanuel "Chivo" Lubezki (who regularly works for Terrence Malick), the images they create here are magnificent. We've seen beautiful lensing of the outer limits before in films like 2001 and For All Mankind, but what Cuaron and Lubezki accomplish here is unique. The film's opening shot is a single unbroken take that continues for seventeen minutes. Taking a page from Altman and Orson Welles and then exploding the possibilities, Cuaron's camera glides with balletic ease from wide to close-up, from motion to not. In one moment the camera is stationary, observing Bullock as she spins out of control while hooked to debris; in the next moment, we have gently transitioned into keeping pace with her, so we're spinning in tandem with her, while everything else moves around us. 

The absence of any cutting in what amounts to the film's first third has an effect more powerful than we might assume. Whether we are cognizant of it or not, we moviegoers understand the basic grammar of film editing. After a century of watching films, we intuitively understand the language of shot progression, and can generally have some notion of what type of shot will follow the one we're seeing. Here, that safety net has been removed. There is no way of anticipating the next shot, because it's all one continuous flow; a single perspective, albeit a mobile one. 

Cuaron's preference for unbroken takes is visible in all his films (witness the climax of Children of Men, whose ten-minute take is possibly more impressive because it was shot on film); Gravity has a miniscule 156 shots, as compared to the 2,000-shot average these days; even films from a half-century ago still averaged 800 shots. There is a drifting quality at work here that heightens the realism. Cuts implicitly state a removal of something in between two shots; there's more verisimilitude if a shot is continuous. Many of these 156 shots are extended 6-10 minute takes. Interestingly, the film is framed at 2.35:1, instead of the more conveniently claustrophobic 1.85:1 academy ratio; the choice nonetheless works, as the cramped spaces of the shuttles still feel cramped. The scope frame effectively captures the vastness of space in a way that the flat ratio likely wouldn't.

There's a magical moment during the opening shot where the camera observes Bullock, wearing her space helmet, for an extended period of time; then, slowly, we the camera drift imperceptibly closer until we are actually inside her helmet, on the claustrophobic inside looking out. Her panicked breath fogs the glass, obscuring our field of vision. For shots such as this one 3D is particularly valuable. Normally a format I detest (learn more below), Cuaron's use of 3D here is admirable. Whereas most 3D pictures artificially separate the field of vision into planes- foreground, background (the human eye doesn't do this, which is why 2D is actually a better approximation of eyesight than 3D), here there are not divided planes but a full sense of near and far with all the depth in between. 

While I still think 3D is a passing gimmick (the current craze is actually not as heavy as it was in the 50s, the heyday for 3d movies), I have to wholeheartedly recommend it here. The aforementioned shot in which we're stuck inside Bullock's helmet is immeasurably helped by the format; that fogged glass feels as if it's right up against us, and the distance of the space beyond is palpable. The shots in which spaceships are being destroyed and debris are flying are a visual feast- there is so much movement in the frame, and 3D only amplifies the sense of chaos. 

Special mention of the sound design should also be noted; as a director famous for complex soundscapes, Gravity is no exception. The score is minimal and extremely effective; a subtle, eerie repeating tone punctuates the action, and like Children, the intricate sound work is of the type that makes one turn one's head in the theatre.

How refreshing it is to have a female protagonist in a film that's not a romance or comedy. Sandra Bullock was the third choice for the role, but upon seeing the film I have trouble imagining anyone else. No previous performance of hers prepares us for her work here; there is an unforced and natural confidence of presence she projects which feels not like that of a movie star, but of a human being. Her character has no great loved one or family waiting for her; we buy her aching loneliness and lack of self-esteem in a way that just wouldn't be plausible with a bigger star. Bullock is in every scene, and is largely the only character onscreen for the duration of the film (George Clooney has an excellent supporting turn early on); she absolutely carries the picture. Her performance is not merely passable in an otherwise fantastic film; no, her work is of a caliber right alongside the direction and craftwork.

Gravity can play as merely a survival thriller, and as such it's a recent best. Audiences looking only for that will leave satisfied. However, there's a lot more to chew on here. The title has a double meaning; in two senses it is the most coveted item in the film. Weightlessness in space proves to be a curse for the characters, most of whom's problems would be solved if there was gravity; additionally, gravity, in the sense of meaning, weight, serious purpose- this is what Ryan Stone so wishes to possess. Don't we all?

The quandaries presented are both literal and philosophical. This first aspect will lead to a strong opening weekend (with a $17.5M Friday from 3500 locations, an above-expectations $45+ opening now seems likely), but the latter element will allow the film to hold as time marches on. Great films, like great literature, last because they are character-based. Peruse any list of the greatest films of all time; they are great not for their stories, but their explorations of human nature. When people talk about Citizen Kane or The Godfather, they don't discuss the story and "what happens next;" they talk about the characters and how they interact, and what we learn from watching them. The same is the case here. 

Many excellent films fade from the discussion as time progresses. Gravity is the best-reviewed film of the year in release so far, and I feel this enthusiasm for the film will persist.

Further reading:

Alfonso discusses making the film.
Emmanuel discusses the cinematography.

Some strong observations on 3D from Walter Murch.

The enjoyable film scholar Kristen Thomson dissects 3D from a technical and financial perspective in this two part essay: part 1, part 2.

Our man in the front is fading.

He's in the first set of forward-facing seats- a favorite spot of mine- and he's bobbing his head against his chest, drifting off to sleep. 

"Alright, there's 100th next, Oak Tree on the left; that's the movie theatre comin' up." He had told me earlier he'd wanted this stop. He was mildly interested in the new Vin Diesel picture, Riddick.

"That one supposed to be all right?"
"I dunno," he said, in unintentional agreement with the lukewarm reaction toward the film from the critical community at large (actually, 'lukewarm' is a generous label; with a paltry Metascore of 48 and a soft $19M opening, the film looks to be pulling a fast fade; there are much better works in theatres now- Villeneuve's Prisoners, and upcoming films by Cauron and Greengrass). 
"I hope it's good," I say, "'cause movie tickets cost money nowadays."
"Yeah they do." I listen to the texture of his voice as he laments further. "But lemme tell you, the minute the previews end, and them seats is so comfortable, nice dark theatre, next thing you know I'm wakin' up and it's the end credits is playin'!"

"Oh no," I say aloud. I watch him looking out the window as he speaks and wonder what sights, dreams, and experiences he's seen. He's wearing an interesting conflation of African, Caribbean, and good old-fashioned American clothing. Colorful. There's a friendly rasp to his aging voice. He'd gotten on at Deseret Industries, with hands full of paint buckets, handles, and cloth; a cleaner perhaps, or a painter.

After our brief chat he dozes off. Fifty blocks later a runner gets on, agitated. 

"You're the guy I had to run last time and missed your bus, make me late for my coffee!"
He's around fifty as well, with glasses and an unidentifiable Eastern European accent. 
"Shoot, I'm glad you made it today!" I say.
"Yeah, last time you leave without me I become late for dinner!"
"Yeah? I must not've seen you. I can't wait for people if I can't see 'em. Where do you like to have dinner?"

"I have a home," he says. He explains how lonely he feels inside, and how he goes out to eat in Fremont to counter his loneliness. He explains how he drinks two cups of coffee, so he doesn't get tired. "I don't think I'd sleep either if I had two cups of coffee," I say. I don't drink coffee. 

We drift on for a while, and it's at this point that I make the above announcement, arriving at 100th Street. When our moviegoer doesn't deboard, I turn around and ask him if he wanted this stop. He wakes from his slumber and says, no, let's go down to 85th.
Eighty-fifth sounds good, I reply.

After he gets off there, our European diner says to those around him in a voice of extreme anguish, "why doesn't he drink coffee? If he drank coffee, then he won't be so tired. Did you see him, falling asleep like that? Did you see the way he looked, sleeping? He almost miss his stop! Eighty-fifth! He almost missed his stop!" Frothing at the mouth. "All he need to do is drink coffee! That's why I drink coffee is so I don't become tired it's easy all you have to do is buy coff-"

Across from him is a young mixed-race teenager with big headphones around his neck and an oversized sweatshirt Taft could've fit in. 

"Why you trippin, dogg," he asks the Diner, firmly but politely.
Diner: "What are you doing?"
"Just tryin' t'get home, playa."
"If only that guy had some coffee, he wouldn't be so-"
"Yeah yeah. But why you so worked up about it? You're gonna hurtchurself bein' like that."

The kid's voice is made of common sense. He might be a teenager, but there is a confidence and genuine concern that is undeniable, and fresh. Silence now, as Diner reflects. 

"Why you let that shit affect you, bro? Let it go."

I would have chosen different words, but I may not have been as succinct. He just encapsulated what reams of self-help books get lost trying to express. You find greatness in the most unexpected of places. I look at him in the mirror- he doesn't see me- and I smile deeply. There are still great things in store for this world. 

"Smart man," I say aloud, more to myself than anyone else.

A street guy in a weathered baseball cap and big black jacket comes up from the back.

"Listen, I want you to have this," he says. 
"Sure, yeah. Let's see, what do we have here..."

He hands me a Criminal History report. The paperwork confirms that he has no history of criminal conviction, in keeping with the Child/Adult Abuse Information Act. Based "on the descriptors provided," in fact, he has no record of child abuse whatsoever.

"Shoot," I say. "This looks real great."
"Thanks."
"Yeah, this is awesome. It's for me to keep?"
"Yeah, absolutely."
"I'm into it. Thanks!"

Oh, it's great to be back!

It would be more newsworthy to write that the 70s were running on time. With breaks of only six minutes all day, the 70 has perhaps the least realistic schedule in the system; an extra few red lights at 10am will still be reverberating through the schedule in the evening rush hour. A result of a 2009 County Council mandate, the new 70 schedule is something most passengers have acclimated to. They're adept at understanding the initially confusing prospect of skip-stopping- it's no surprise to see two (or three) 70s in a row, alternating the stops to more evenly distribute the load and expedite travel. 

The record I've seen is six 70s in a row- over an hour's worth of service all in one place! It was a 70 caravan, and I had to laugh. In true Steibeckian fashion, there is no identifiable culprit. The driver's abilities are limited by traffic; the service planners are restricted by the Council and their private interests; the budget deficits motivating the audit which led to the aforementioned mandate were instigated by the economic downturn, the causes of which I leave to individuals more qualified on the subject than myself. 

One end result is the alternately mystifying and hilarious sight of six 70s trundling down 15th. Talk about options. Your choice of drivers, seats, attitudes, temperatures, people...

I'd get nowhere being frustrated by it. I've filled out the relevant paperwork, and even spoken to a couple service planners on the issue; one ruefully rolled his eyes upon hearing the number "70."

"Oh, Lord. Believe me, we know," he said. "We get complaints about that one every day!" He needs a thousand service hours to fix the route, and he knows exactly how to do it. But as Metro faces a possible seventeen percent cut in service, you could say the timing isn't quite right. With the lack of a funding source, the question isn't what to fix or add, but rather which routes (and drivers) to cut. 

I used to apologize for being late. I don't anymore, because I'm not at fault. I let passengers express their frustration- they usually don't need an explanation, just a chance to vent (sample conversation: "You're late!" "Yes, we are!"). As mentioned earlier, some folks seem to grasp the impossibility of blame in this situation a bit more clearly.  Maybe their high-school readings on Grapes of Wrath are still lingering on the brain. 

In any event, the thing to do when buses of the same route get stacked is to skip stops. If your follower is visible, and you don't have dropoffs, he'll take care off the passengers of this upcoming stop while you go and pick up for the next zone. This puts space between coaches and speeds up the process for everyone- even that sixth coach, the lonely driver of which will finally- hopefully- actually get to do some work! If a bus passes by you by, look behind it- it's likely that the following bus is right on its tail, with plenty of seats to boot.

On one such evening I pulled into Prefontaine northbound and thought about skipping, because Gregg, my follower, would be visible behind me in about five seconds. One man stood at the zone. Something in me hesitated, and I stopped and opened the doors anyway.

"Hi," I said to the young German man. He was carrying- dragging is more like it- a haphazard brotherhood of bags and suitcases that had to weigh more than he did.

"Hey. Are you going to Eastlake Avenue East and East Lynn Street?" He was loud and friendly, like me, and out of of his element, as I have been.

"Eastlake and Lynn, yes! I would love to go there!" 

You can sense when someone is relieved to the point where they can let their guard down. He was among friends now. He explained his bewildering search for the elusive 70, how he'd asked around in the tunnel and received confusing answers- this was right around the time when the 71 expresses in the tunnel are still running, the 70 upstairs is almost done for the night, and the 71 locals haven't started up yet. It can be confusing even if you do live here. 

"Where you comin' from?"
"Germany!"
"Oh, excellent!"
"Yeah, it's like four o'clock in the morning for me right now!"
"And you're still happy! I'm impressed!"

This was the last leg of a twenty-three hour journey. Immediately we began trading war stories of long-distance travel. It's a joy to see the smile of recognition on his haggard face. Both of us light up, talking of day-long plane rides and missed connections. 

"It's so crazy to me, that by just sitting still on all these different machines, you can cross over to the other side of the world..."
"Yes, it's like, I ate breakfast this morning eight thousand miles away!"

He's here visiting an American family he once lived with, whom he hasn't seen for many years. I ask him if they have trolley buses in Germany. They do. He also mentions that like here, Germany has the full gamut of bus driver personalities- some talk a lot, and some don't. Somehow this is a surprise to me- in the countries I've traveled in, the bus drivers are dour, grim young men, understandably dealing with traffic far more "interesting" than anything we have here.

So I'm enlivened to hear this. In this world of continuing flux, constancy warms my heart, sometimes even if it's negative. I recall wandering around on the notorious Hastings Street in Vancouver, taking in the milieu. Cars honked, people flipped each other off, guys were yelling at bus drivers and missing their connections...

And I felt great. 

The human condition was in lively form here. Lao Tsu wrote that the ten thousand things rise and fall, but nothing ever actually changes. Study the natural order of things, he suggested, such that you can flow with it rather than against it. I looked at the tumult going on around me, angry shapes in the stark afternoon sun, and felt comforted in a way I still have trouble articulating. 

It was as if the commonality of the human spirit, in both good and bad form, was showing its familiar face; I looked upon this face I know so well, and I smiled. There was nothing uniquely wrong or flawed with Seattle, the face told me. This stuff is happening everywhere, and we keep moving right along, figuring out our different ways to deal. 

So the idea that way out in Hamburg, amongst the slick, dense rush of traffic, there are drivers chatting it up and loving the joyful chaos of their job- this thrills me tremendously. Some things never change.

At Lynn Street our friend- Toby- got out. I told him the cardinal directions, and where the water was, setting him on his course. Also deboarding was a lovely young woman and her friend, who'd been listening to us. Out on the sidewalk she began speaking to Toby, in fluent German. They all got excited. It was dark outside now, but it was a comforting darkness. I watched them as I closed the doors, watched as they reveled in the sameness of being human. You can feel at home on the far side of the universe.

I'm so glad I stopped for him.

"We're just goin' to the nex' stop."

Somehow that's how it often begins. He slurred it out as best he could, stumbling around at the front. In tow was a woman about his age, forties, with her grandson, a boy of about eight. The boy was a touch chubby, and had a chocolate milkshake in hand.

The speaker was a dedicated drunk. Worn-down, nondescript blue and black clothing; his friend and her grandson were a little more put together. They were sober. Our bus being somewhat full, the boy stood in the aisle while they sat, near the front.

"Ey, sit the fuck down, boy. Got to play by th' rules," he said to the youngster, who didn't respond.
Quietly, the young Grandmother: "don't talk to him like that."
The boy in question impressed me; not only did he seem utterly unfazed by the father figure's barbs, but he didn't feel the need to put up a front, either. He wasn't stoic, or too cool for school, or any other defense mechanism; he was simply there, doing his best to ignore the negative energy, enjoying another sip of that milkshake.

"Stop holdin' on them bars like a li' girl, and sit the fuck down,"
"But I like standing," the boy replied in a kind voice. It's the kind of voice you could never yell at, if you were sober.
"Keep runnin' your goddamn mouth, you little motherfucker. I'ma show you how this world work."
"It's okay."
"Watch what happens, boy." 

We're at a red light. I turn around to face him. "Hey," I say in a normal voice. No response. 
Again, loudly: "HEY! MAH FRIEND!"
He snaps to attention. Everyone is instantly silent. 

Back to normal volume: "I don't think you need to yell at that boy."
"Fuck is you talkin' to. I got nothin' to say to you."
"Don't yell at him, man. Yell at me."
"Wha..."
"Yell at me."
"Man, shut the fuck up. I say the fuck I wanna say,"
"Go on, man, get it outta your system,"
"Little kid tryna stir some shit,"
"Aw, don't stop now!"

Every minute he's yelling at me is another moment of respite for that boy. My heart goes out to the young fellow. I wonder if he has to listen to this all the time.

"Grabbin' them bars like a pansy," he says to the youngster, turning to me again. He contemplates life for a moment and then says to me, in a tone of revelation, "I bet you's a faggot!"

"I said get it outta your system,"
"I BET YOU APPROVE UH GAY MARRIAGE," he lurches out.
"Yup yup yup, lettin' it all out, good,"
Into the microphone I say, "have a good night, everyone-"
"-Faggot-"
"Thanks for hangin' out-"
"Wearin' nice pants and shit,"
"You folks stay stay safe this evening-"
"Crease down the middle,"
"Maybe see you tomorrow;" now our friend is getting up, balancing, as we pull into the next zone- "Broadway and Jefferson, everyone, hope you all have a great evening-"
"Muth-a-fuck-in asshole, tellin' me the fuck to do, you all dressed nice,  lookin' good for the ladies and shit,"
We're almost at the zone. People are getting up, milling about, thinking let me outta here. He stands.
"Fuckin' buttons and shit, gay-ass-"

I get off the mic and look him in the eye: "Hey, listen. You have a good night now." 

There's a way to say that line in a voice that cuts to the bone and twists like a knife. I'm a little ashamed to say that that's exactly how I said it. Perhaps I shouldn't have. Why? 

Because he used to be a toddler once, who was probably yelled at exactly as he's yelling now. 

Deep down there, buried at the moment, dwells a kernel of goodness. He must have heard my tone, because he paused and said, in a measured tone of furious confusion,

"What the fuck?"

You could almost hear his voice crack, like a teenager whose surprise has overtaken his anger. He's towering over me now, teeter-tottering, a spinning top starting to slow. In his mind though, he's still Genghis Khan. He's Patton at Messina. Hostile, belligerent, pugnacious: "What's your name?"

Walking out to my coach at East Base once, another driver was telling me what to do if passengers complain about the air conditioning. "It's too cold," they told me, on the 212. The air conditioning unit on a hybrid coach is actually a climate control system that blows a mixture of hot and cold air to achieve an average temperature. The hot air emanates from the center of the bus, and cold air blows out of the front and rear. Thus, based on where you're sitting, the temperature can feel hotter and colder than what is intended.

"So when they give you grief, Nathan, tell them- with confidence- that the AC unit works like this, that it does this and that in the back of the bus and so on. Don't say you don't know for sure. Be polite, but project confidence. That's what'll get through, more than anything you actually say. They just want to know somebody's in control. They'll hear you say something about heating and cooling, but the point is you sound like you know what you're doing. They can relax."

That's what flashed through my head as I said, with confidence- both of us practically shouting now-

"My name is Nathan!!! You have a goooood night!!"

There isn't anything else the poor guy can say. My guard is that I have no guard. He stumbles down the steps, onto the sidewalk, one foot crossing out, balance is going, and there he goes, tipping on the slanting pavement, slipping, falling, everybody watching, the boy sipping his milkshake, this dark, lanky figure against the white cement squares, crumpling down formless, collapsing into a young tree. His body slides into the landscaping, arms almost laconically reaching up towards air, rolling through nothing, small bushes and beauty bark, victim of gravity and vice. 

Not a soul offers help. They just watch.

Young Grandma watches her friend try to stand up. "Sorry about this," she says to me. She means it. 
"Are you gonna be okay?"
"Oh, yeah. Yeah, Ah be alright."

Two hours later she got on again, alone. Was that her?
"Hey," I said. "Are you the gal from earlier...?"
Yes, she was. 
"Your man back there looked like he wasn't having a very good day."
"Yeah, he just my friend. I ain't seen him in a while, we went and had a couple beers."
"A couple?!"
"Yeah! He kinda gets like that."
"Guess we all have that friend drinks a little too much."
"You got that right!"
"You know, I'm glad you got on again, 'cause afterwards I felt bad about yelling at him. I shoulda been nicer to the guy." I wondered how he would react if I saw him again.
"What? Oh dude, don't worry about it. Yeah, he's legally blind and pretty deaf. Always thinks people are out to get him."
"Okay, okay. I felt bad for your boy!"

She explained he was her grandson, and I told her to congratulate him on his attitude. I should have taken that chubby kid by both his shoulders and said, you are awesome. You deserve all the great insight this life has to offer, and you should run this town someday. I should've done everything that can be done in five seconds to balance out however many hours, weeks and years he's had to receive such hate. But I couldn't think fast enough. He had such patience. Seeing Grandma replenished me, brought the noise down to something comprehensible.

A few weeks later, the same man got on again, wearing similarly nondescript dark clothing. Which attitude to take? Should I harbor the past, or even out the score, or make judgments? No. There's so many reasons why those are bad ideas, but frankly, they just take too much energy. I remembered only that I needed to speak up.

"Hey," I said in a friendly voice. "How's it going?" 
"Good, good," he said. "Thanks."
"Right on."