A few quick notes-

If you haven't already, know that you still have a chance to check out my show before it closes on Saturday! I'll be taking down the show at 5pm Saturday (you might catch me there earlier in the day as well), but feel free to stop in between now and then anytime! 

Michael Upchurch of the Seattle Times reviews the show here. Gallery hours (basically, 1-5) and directions here. Information about the show here, including video of the opening monologue.

Also, a long-overdue new batch of photographs await in the Photography section of the site.

Check back for a sizable new story I'm particularly excited about in a day or so!

The afternoon sun was burning off, fading slowly as the shadows took over. The energy of the day may be waning, but on the 4 things are as lively as ever. We've got a good crowd tonight, headed home to the Central District after a hot day. There's a festive quality, fed perhaps by myself, but also by the gregarious nature of some of the passengers, which encourages people to open up. Sounds like a birthday party in here.

At 20th a lanky teenager comes forward; this was during the days of 'pay as you leave.' He'd been taking part in the joy, joking and relaxing as if all these strangers were friends. We have to remember that many teens, especially those who don't work with the public, haven't really had the chance to talk with people they don't know. It's a new experience, and a  significant one. You can't be quite so self-absorbed. I get exhilarated watching him talk, holding his own with the others, of different generations and races; sometimes, if the light is right, you feel like you can almost see it- one of those tiny moments where people come of age.

Afterwards, he comes up, about to get off the bus. "Hey man, I don't got no money left," he says to me, throwing his hands in the air.  People are listening.

"That is all right," I respond. "I appreciate you tellin' me!"
"Thanks, man," he says sincerely.

Spontaneously, he adds, "Sometimes I lie... But not this time!"

The bus dies laughing. I say something like, "Thank you! I'm honored!" and we continue giggling over it as we drive on. His statement is endearing, in addition to being totally ridiculous; but what it also is is honest. Inwardly I smile, that we were able to build an environment where he felt comfortable enough to be his cheeky growing self.

"You've gotta watch out for that Ethiopian guy in the back," a white man in a spandex bike outfit once told me, referring to the underweight man in the massive black jacket, with rotting teeth and dirty fingers, sitting in the back talking with his friend. 

Generalizations notwithstanding, 99% of first-generation people, especially Africans, never give me any problems.  The East and Central African communities are among the friendliest groups out here. 
Out loud I say, "It's all good. Those guys never give me beef."
"That guy does."

There are exceptions to every rule. On that day the man in question, along with his friend, did end up hollering at some women in the back of the bus- they all knew each other- forcefully asking the women for something I couldn't understand. "Hold the bus," Black Jacket Man yelled up at me, while one of the women gave him some money, apparently trying to placate him with a short-term solution. 

It pays off to be friendly, though; as the men stepped out the back, I yelled a farewell- "thanks, my friend!", and he didn't forget to thank me for my time. As stated earlier, I benefit by remembering that my interactions need to be informed by the fact that I will see these same folks again, and again, and again. They're out there. 

A week or so later I wait for a runner- no, sprinter is more like it- positively streaking toward my bus, defying physics as he bounds toward my open door. It's him, Black Jacket.* I actually like this guy. He's a ticking time bomb waiting to explode- there are stories of his ugly behavior- but I like his huge smile. He beams with pleasure upon recognizing me, his bright eyes and decaying teeth practically glowing. He mumbles animatedly in the direction of the transfers, and understands when I tell him I'll give him one on his way out. I've discovered this is a useful way to keep no-paying customers in check for the duration of the ride. 

He's an absolute gentleman today. I have a feeling he would've been fine even if I had denied him a transfer; but you never know. It's not worth it to find out sometimes. There are boundaries that don't need to be tested. At the end of his ride, he bounds out of the back door, skipping past the overloaded bus to the front; "My brother!" he yells up at me. 

"My friend!" I respond. A promise made is a promise kept. His smile is the face of someone who feels valued. We shake hands in the sunlight, and he goes glimmering off into the busy afternoon, the gleam still carrying on his face. 


*Black Jacket has an identical twin, Blue Jacket (not his real name!), who possesses the same mannerisms, if not the same coat. I'm on first-name terms with one of them, but have no idea which. 

This story is continued from the previous post, available here or directly below-

At Pine, LSBW gets off. Before doing so, she takes a moment to slip back in character, telling Spry Lady, "I'm getting out at PINE. I'll kick your ass, you anorexic bitch!"

"Aw, we don't need to say stuff like that," I say, in the tone of a disappointed Auntie talking to her lovable grand-neices. "Have a good night."
"Okay," she says. I was prepared for anything, but her response is so unexpectedly ordinary I can't help but laugh.

Now it's just myself, Gent, and Spry at the front. The bus fills up a little on its way to the next stop, Union, but the conversation between the three of us stays focused. I immediately thank Spry for having the patience to put up with LSBW.

"Oh, it's fine, I've seen her around.  She's mentally disabled," she explains to Gent, "her mom's white and her dad's black, and she thinks people don't like her because of that."
"Which doesn't make sense at all, because there's such a variety of people in this city, and it's a fairly tolerant place-"
"Exactly, nobody cares about that stuff here,"
"Yeah, we're a rainbow city!" 
To Spry, I butt in again with, "thanks again for your patience. You're wonderful."
"Oh it's okay, it's fine, I know her. I mean I don't know know her-" you can see she's trying to make a good impression on Gent-
"Yeah, I do too," I say. "She's always like this."
Gent, quite a bit more tolerant and empathetic than I would've guessed: "Yes, her mind is telling her to say things..."
"-that would make her blush, if she actually knew," I say.
"Exactly. You can't take it to heart."
"It's not you."

I look at them and smile to myself. What a pleasure it is to see these two people, one in a suit an the other in rags, of the same generation but from the absolute opposite ends of the spectrum, trying to make each other feel better. Making real the thread that ties them together.

Gent gets out to go enjoy his concert at Benaroya. Spry remains, and we chat up a storm about this and that, I can hardly remember what, my mind still reeling from what had just happened, processing it all. Spry has long since moved on, and is happily babbling about something else. When she gets off to go back inside Harborview, I thank her again for her strength of character. "And you're not anorexic," I say at one point-

"Oh, but I am. I'm havin' serious problems with it now, that's why I'm staying at the hospital. Never been over a hundred pounds my whole life."

I'm humbled by how strong this person is. LSBW had struck what undoubtedly has to be a raw nerve, and she hadn't flinched, and more than that, she'd forgotten about it within minutes. "Well, I think you're awesome," I tell her. "You have a great character. You're doing great. Don't listen to that other stuff, it's not coming from anywhere."

"Oh , I know. Listen, if I'd a gotten out at Pine with her, she'd a been terrified. It's all good."
"Have a great night."
"I will. You too!"

We'd try to pick her up a little, Gent and I. But she didn't really need it.

Extremely bad vibrations are humming in the air. Fifth and Denny, northbound. I and my follower, who has caught up to me, are leaving a zone. A runner runs up at the last minute. I don't wait, because there's a second bus right behind me, and I take the yellow light that's in front of me, clearing the intersection just in time; however, my following bus doesn't stop for the running lady either, and drives through what is unquestionably a red light. Bad form! Additionally, I was on time (incredibly) and he was thus 7 minutes early, making his move all the more egregious. I sigh as I picture the event from the runner's perspective. Purposefully, I don't look in the mirror- I don't want to know which driver it was. Don't want to hold grudges. 

Later on, inbound from Queen Anne, I'm having a pleasant conversation with a recent mover to Seattle- an older gent who grew up in New York and recently lived in Texas. Sophisticated fellow. He loves how bountiful the art scene is here, as compared to his former digs, particularly from where he now resides in lower Queen Anne. He's on his way to see a show at Benaroya. We speak of Seattle's mild weather, beautiful nature, and so on. Great. All well and good so far.

At Broad, an older lady of perhaps sixty hops on, approximate in age to the gent I'm speaking with, but from a completely different background- she's spry and frightfully thin, with weathered tan skin and raggedy clothing. She's staying at Harborview for the time being. The three of us begin a new conversation. Gent from Texas is wonderfully open-minded, and the street woman's attitude is rich in verve and wit. We discuss Benaroya and its multiple concert halls. They discover they've both read the same Michael Connelly novel. She sits angled forward, excited, with straight posture; there is the impression of a happy, excited child, thrilled at the chance to discuss culture with Gent. 

There was another passenger who got on at Broad. 

Yes, you know the one. Frizzy hair kept close to her head, heavyset, glasses, a face both chubby and pinched, with those unmistakable pink tights...there's only one of her, and lower case letters just won't do when describing her- yes, it's THE LIGHT-SKINNED BLACK WOMAN.

She's sitting directly behind me, listening to Gent and Spry Lady discuss Connelly's books directly across from her. 

"WAIT. YOU CAN READ?!" she says.
"Oh, I think we all can!" I respond.

I keep the conversation between myself, Gent, and Spry going at a hurtling pace, in an effort to prevent LSBW from getting a word in edgewise. I've never talked with such fervor about Michael Connelly before. In a moment proving the universe does indeed have a terrific sense of humor, LSBW asks us to speak a little more quietly, and stop being so (fucking) loud. All things considered, she seems realtively sedate so far. Not bad. I try to stay sharp, and ready.

At Virginia I pull around a 131 who's using his lift. He's a little further back in the zone, and I pull around into the left lane, going around him; I check for passengers who might want my bus at the head of the zone, then pull to the stop bar at the intersection, waiting for the light. I'm still in the left lane. The 131 pulls forward alongside me, and the Ryerson Base operator inside it opens his window and glares at me. Haven't seen him before; he doesn't know me. Clearly he wants to talk, and I open my doors.

"What's up?" I say.
"What are you doin' up here?!" he spits out, the whites of his eyes shining. "You don't get to pull in front a me!"
"You wanna pull ahead, man? Go for it, man, you got it!"
Practically frothing at the mouth: "That's not how it works. You don't pull around-"

Not gonna give him a second. I butt in with authority, smiling at him: "You go ahead, man, go for it! You got the right a way, it's all yours, my friend! I'ma get outta your way a little, give you some more space, you gon' fit just fine. Plenty of room. You got this. You got it!"

He glares, and glares, and glares, and I hold his gaze with a neutral expression- his is the mask of someone about to kill, while I'm wearing the face of someone about to laugh.

LSBW, clearly forgetting to stay in character, says, "that guy's got problems!"
"Yeah, he doesn't seem to be having  a very good day, huh?"

Gent pipes in. "I haven't been to all the cities in the US, but I've been in most of 'em. And I have to say, the bus drivers in Seattle get my top marks. You guys are some of the best I've seen anywhere when it comes to staying patient, dealing with people, being courteous..."

I thank him profusely. I can see he's trying to pick me up a little. I don't really need it, but I'm grateful.

--

Story continues in the next post- stay tuned!

Some people absolutely glow. I've run into just a few in my life. They are not better or worse than other people, but they exude an energy that isn't reactive. It comes from within them, and spills out with no apparent effort on their part. Theirs is an essence that quivers with life and affects everyone around them, in some way or another. I'm thrilled by it. I'm intensely attracted to this, and I don't mean romantically; when Ali or Audrey Hepburn or Fellini stood in a room, you felt something, and that something wasn't about sexuality, not really. It was something else. 

It was the Glow, the vibrating hum of immediate, pulsing life.

There's a young woman who has the glow who rides my 3/4 into town. She's a high school student. I kind of hope she doesn't read this, because I don't want her to feel self-conscious. Would it really do any good to tell her she has the Glow? Who knows. We can only bask in it and learn from it. 

You get the impression of life lived without pretense; she usually travels with an entourage of friends, but today she is alone. We sat up front and talked, and more than the particulars of the conversation, I remember the tone and timbre of the voices, and the sensation of light. 

It was her birthday, and she was excited. I had worked out some personal stuff in my own life, and thus felt excited as well. Both of us, generating great energy for different reasons... ebullient, vivacious, life-giving conversation. We blew up. She showed me her drawings, a few on her phone, tremendous even at that small size; we talk about art, other bus drivers, classical music, stretching, and who knows what else. Energy, bubbling out through both of us, making all things new.

I'm reminded of the opening lines from a favorite film of mine: "I don't want to be a product of my environment. I want my environment to be a product of me."

--
Further reading: The Glow II.The Glow III.
Also with the youngster from above: Made it to Heaven on the 4.